


Lost Children

by Topone



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aegon just wants to kiss Lyarra, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Bigotry & Prejudice, F/F, F/M, Female Jon Snow, House Lannister, House Martell, House Tully, House Tyrell, Illustrations, Insecurities, Joffrey Baratheon is His Own Warning, Jon is Lyarra, M/M, Northern culture, R Plus L Equals J, Robb is good at war but useless with women, Roynish culture, Slow Burn, Soulmates - Freeform, Strategy & Tactics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:02:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 50,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24304117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Topone/pseuds/Topone
Summary: Robb never knew his mother, she died birthing him in Riverrun at the end of the Rebellion.When twelve years later Lord Eddard Stark passes away from an illness, a young Robb and his bastard sister Lyarra, now orphans, have to adapt to their new duties.But it all changes when Robb finds a letter left by their father, a letter hiding an old secret.
Relationships: Jon Snow & Robb Stark, Jon Snow/Aegon VI Targaryen, Robb Stark/Rhaenys Targaryen (Daughter of Elia)
Comments: 292
Kudos: 631
Collections: Jon Snow is female





	1. News

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write this story for a while, so here it is! The title is a homage to Kentaro Miura's Berserk best arc, a manga that I suggest you to read if you liked Asoiaf, of course everything belongs to George R.R. Martin and Hbo.  
>  _flashbacks, thinking and letters. ___This is my first attempt at writing a story, I hope you liked it! If you did, please consider leaving Kudos or a comment with your opinion, it would make me very happy.  
>  I already wrote a few chapters and I will post another the next week, I think.  
> Thanks for reading!

_The relentless dornish sun bathed everything as far as Eddard Stark's eyes could see, the heat completely unbearable for the northern man and his companion, Howland Reed, Lord of Greywater Watch._

_His stone-grey eyes fell on the third element of their little party, the wetnurse Wylla, precisely on the small babe she was safely cradling in her arms._

_Little Alysanne -no, Lyarra, from now on she would be called Lyarra, in honour of Ned's mother- was soundly sleeping, feeble whiffs coming out from her tiny mouth, completely unbothered by the slow and unsteady progress of the cart she was on._

_His old friend moved his brown warhorse next to his._

_"It would be wise to let me raise her, you know? Deep in the Neck, out of sight from even the most obstinate eyes."_

_Ned inwardly sighed, they already discussed this._

" _She will grow up in Winterfell, with her family, as every Stark before her."_

_Howland didn't seem to be deterred, though, his gaze returning time and time again to the small girl behind them._

_"She has the sun-blessed skin of the Valyrians," he said giving a pointed look to the Winterfell Lord._

_That she had, but at least her eyes weren't purple like the most beautiful stars in the night sky, and her hair wasn't silver like the softest and most precious silk strands._

_Thanks the Gods for small mercies._

_Yet, the crannogman kept ignoring his warden's meaningful silence and tired expression._

_"My wife was expecting back at Greywater, they will surely be a wonderful companion for little Alysanne."_

_At that point, remembering how the merchant they met on the road said there were still two to three days before Starfall, Ned slouched on his horse._

_It would be a very long journey._

* * *

**Twelve years later, 295 after Aegon's conquest.**

Robb examined intrigued the wooden board in front of him, trying to think of a move that wouldn't end in tragedy for him.  
It was a big thing, right in the centre of Maester Luwin's study, with little mountains and woods and rivers to try and simulate a real battlefield, of course with coloured wooden pieces to act as armies' units, the heir of Winterfell currently using the reds.  
To the other side of the board, the Maester was seated watching the young Stark Lord, ready to lecture him after his move.

The Stark heir tried to remember any useful information from the books treating military strategy that the maester made him read, but nothing was coming to his mind at that particular moment, and how is a Maester so able in military matters anyway?

And so Robb huffed again, narrowing his eyes, while a small smile appeared on Luwin's face.

He was most certainly screwed, no doubts about it, the blue cavalry, his opponent's, pinned down the right flank of his faux army, making practically impossible every move that wouldn't end as a near slaughter for all his troops, but still...

Young blue eyes roamed again all the battlefield, trying to find something, even the smallest thing that would permit him to overturn this disadvantage.  
And as his father, Lord Eddard Stark, loves to tell him, he has to do it very quickly, no one's gonna wait for him on the battlefield.  
A small smile appeared on the young Lord face.

_There it is._

And so Robb took two of his centre units and made them advance.

Maester Luwin eyebrows lifted, and Robb knew immediately he was in for ten minutes in the Seven Hells.

But man, he loves to discuss strategy with his teacher.

"The right thing to do there would have been to sound the retreat, young Lord," the old and wisened voice said.

"Well, yes," answered Robb, "but making the centre the linchpin of the army, and also making the enemies focus on it, would give time and space for the left-wing to try and overturn the tides of the battle," he continued, pointing to the board and pouting a little.

During all of this rant, Maester Luwin's eyes held the usual slightly impressed but slightly exasperated look he constantly had during Robb's lessons.

"And I know that your cavalry advancing would put my centre in a pincer even faster," the young Stark continued, "and that pincers are an army sure death, but if it was gonna happen all the same, wouldn't it be better to try and risk something for an unsure win, instead of retreating and losing even more men in the enemy's pursuit?"

Robb said all of this without even taking a breath, his legs crossed on the old chair, and now, in the end, his cheeks were slightly flushed, creating even more contrast with his bright blue eyes.

"And if your army retires, doesn't it mean that then your lands are open to the enemy? Leaving their soldiers freedom to..." The young Stark heir diverted his gaze, " r-rape and kill your people?"

Luwin shifted in his seat, picking up one of the wooden infantry units models Robb just moved.

"These," the old Maester began, referring to the piece in his hand, "are men of the North." Now his tone was far more serious.

"These are men that have wives, children, parents, and that are fighting for you because it's their duty."

He then pointed a bony finger at Robb.  
"And it is your duty to see that their lives are not cut short in vain.  
All that you said before is true, young Lord, that move would probably have given you a slight chance at victory, but at the cost of several good men, your father's man, and eventually yours."

Well, and now Robb was feeling very ashamed, his eyes downwards watching his hands crossed in his lap.

But Master Luwin didn't end it there.

"You are a Stark, and a future Lord Paramount, and your duty will be to protect the people of the North."

The only sound at that moment was the old water hourglass trickling, the young red-haired boy visibly a bit remorseful and still playing with his hands, avoiding any look to his teacher.  
The Maester sighed, and despite all he had just said, you could see clearly how much he cared for his young charge.

"Lord Robb," he continued, surprised at the unusual slightly sad and demure look of the young boy in front of him, "we can't simulate clearly a battle in this little tower of Winterfell, warfare has many layers, everyone more complicated than the other, and without knowing the context of a battle we can't know if a move would be good or not in the greater scheme of things."

"This manoeuvre," the maester asserted, "is risky, as I said earlier, but very clever, it could have surely changed the tide of battle."

"And," a smile bloomed on the old man's face, "I don't believe there is such a talented young man in Westeros besides you, and only after two and ten namedays no less!"

After that, Robb's blinding grin returned, lighting up again his young face.

"I know that you want to go see your sister, your lesson is over, you can go now."

The young Stark quickly bowed to Maester Luwin and with a last look to the old books and dusty shelves of the office, he ran from the Maester's tower toward the great keep of Winterfell where he was sure he would find Lyarra, his bastard sister.

The giant Godswood behind the tall walls of his home, the broken tower, the other many towers launching into the sky, the old keep, the new keep, the guest quarters, the training yard, the Heart tree itself, the cripts, the stables and the kitchens, Robb knew by heart every part, every little crevice of the giant grey fortress that is Winterfell, his family ancestral seat.

And as he was running through many of these places garbed in his young lord grey wool attire, with little running wolves, his house's emblem, stitched on the collar and a little practice sword hanging from his belt, Robb tried to greet every servant and guard he could, as his father taught him.

There is only a place he doesn't like to see, well, in truth, even thinking about it makes his mood drop, the sept.

It is not that he dislikes the faith of the Seven, he can't since the north is part of a bigger realm that follows the new faith and even some the Stark's greatest vassals, like the Manderlys, the Lockes or the Whitehills, follow the southern gods.

Though he prays to the old gods, obviously.  
The thing that irked him is that it was built for his mother, Lady Catelyn Tully, and she died giving birth to him.  
It stands there, in the darkest and less-visited angle of the castle, with its coloured glass and little statues of the seven who are one, mocking Robb by simply existing.

_"You killed your mother, demon child,"_ it whispered to him every time Robb went down there, and he couldn't run away faster.

It always sends shivers down his spine.

But at least he has a sister, the other half of his family other than his father, the one he can share his insecurities with.

And there she was, watching the guards spar and train.  
She was born just a moon after him, and their kinship is best reflected in their high Stark features and long faces.  
That is where the similarities end.  
She has raven black locks, falling curled to stop at her shoulders, in contrast with her brother's smooth dark burgundy hair, nearly the colour of a weirwood's leaves, arranged in a little ponytail with two small bangs dropping at the side of his eyes.  
Her eyes are grey like granite, as the kings of old's eyes are described in the ancient histories hidden in their father solar.  
Her skin tone, on the other hand, is far darker than Robb's pale northern complexion, maybe a bit less than a Dornish but far more sun-kissed than everyone else above the Red mountains, probably due to her mother.

_The same mother that father always refuses to talk about, and I don't know why._

It always annoyed Robb, why not talk to Lyarra about her?  
What was there to lose?

She was wearing a gracefully embroidered dress, one of the many Lady Manderly gifted her for her namedays, made in green and grey fabric, that exposed a small part of her neck and the little silver necklace of their late aunt Lyanna that old Nan gave her.

"When you two are old enough your father will have to refuse betrothals daily." Their uncle Benjen likes to joke, still with a small hint of pride in his eyes, when his duties as the first ranger of the Night's Watch permit him to come visit them here in Winterfell.

Once even, when Robb was younger, Lady Maege Mormont joked about how he was prettier than all her daughters.

_Everyone was laughing, gods, I think I've never been so embarrassed._

"How was your lesson?" The clear voice of Lyarra distracted him from his musings.

"Good," he answered, "interesting." Robb turned his eyes up, watching the clouds shift in the sky.

"You know, you should also attend strategy lessons, you are my heir after all."

His sister giggled, "not my cup of water," she shrugged, tapping with her fingers on the book in her lap, "and you, the real heir, should really pay more attention in our financial lessons, the North isn't going to run itself, is it?"

Robb hummed, "well, I certainly should, but I have you for that, huh?"

"I guess you have," she conceded, opening the small book in her hands, "you'll also have a wife, _she_ will be the Lady of Winterfell, if you manage to avoid marrying your reflection in the meantime."

" _Why_ , are you implying I'm vain?" he asked in an over-the-top voice.

"Yes, I am."

_Well, that's probably fair._

"What's that?"

"The life of King Durran Durrandon the eleventh," she absent-mindedly replied.

"Sounds boring." Robb decided on the spot, while his eyes were roaming the training yard watching Ser Rodrik Cassel, the maester at arms, giving instructions to some newly arrived guards.

"Why should you even read about a Storm King who lived a thousand years ago?"

Lyarra didn't respond, ignoring him, and they stayed like that, seated on that wooden bench at the edge of the training yard.

It was relaxing.

_Family, duty, honour._

He repeats his mother's house words in his head.  
 _Family is the most important._

Sword and spears hit the hay dummies with harsh noises.

Robb watched every moment, every little tilt of the head or movement of the eyes of the men who were currently training.  
He had never tried live steel, Ser Rodrick wouldn't permit it in their lessons, but he can see how much a spar changes when there is the possibility of being hurt.  
Everyone is tense, watching, assessing and trying to decide what to do, and Robb watches their eyes, because that's where you can see the true resolve of a man.  
It's beautiful, and it's deadly, but it's only a spar.  
As Harwin disarmed his opponent, the guard offered his hand, congratulating the other man for the fight.  
He watched disappointedly as the two men returned their weapons to the stack.

Then he heard shifting next to him, Lyarra clearly lost interest in her book and was watching him.

"Any news from father?" She inquired shily, her voice a little more feeble than before.

Robb knows his sister, and he knows how much she is worried, he can tell from how her eyes are a little tighter than normal.

"No," he answered, "no news at all from King's Landing."

Their father, Lord Eddard Stark, Warden of the North, was called south by his friend and foster brother, the King Robert Baratheon, first of his name.

The situation south of the neck was difficult.  
A plague broke out in the south, hitting first Dragonstone and King's Landing, then spreading to the Vale, the Riverlands, the West, the Stormlands and the northern Reach in only a few moons.  
A letter from White Harbour and Widow's watch only a week ago confirmed the North first cases.  
Only Dorne seemed clear so far, having closed every mountain pass and port leading to their lands.  
Lord Manderly and Lord Flint closed their main roads, but the North was too big and the too great distances made it very difficult to be aware of everything that was happening, many were preoccupied the illness would spread even further.  
That said, this stone plague, some strange form of greyscale that appeared every now and then in Essos, wasn't very different from other outbreaks, people got infected, people would die, villages would be burnt, and that was it, it always happened and it will happen again.  
The real problem, Robb understood, was that this was the first real not military crisis Robert Baratheon's rule would face, and together with the fact that the first recognized person to get this strange illness has been Shireen Baratheon, the niece of the king, at only four years old, all this situation was probably taken by the smallfolk as divine punishment for His rule.  
And people talking, spreading voices and discontent, doubting Robert's abilities as king, was not good, not good at all.  
Many were unhappy with the spendthrift ways of the capitol, voices talked about a massive debt of the Crown and how the King would pass his days whoring and getting drunk, and the plague wasn't helping.

And so their father Eddard was called to the capital, to act as a help for the Hand of the King, his foster-father Jon Arryn.

The Maester explained Robb and Lyarra how the  
the small council was scared of the wavering loyalty of the Reach, of the others Targaryen loyalists, and the unpredictability of the Iron Islands.

But Robb did not care, he was scared most of all for his father, because it was him that taught him everything, him that stayed at his side when he was little and too scared to go to sleep.

And because he already lost his mother, he didn't want the same fate to fall on the man he admired most.  
Lord Eddard cannot die, he is an important man, he tries to tell himself, but he knows that death is fickle and cruel, and doesn't care about who it takes, be Lord or farmer, good man or monster.  
And watching Lyarra at his side, seemingly calm but with deep worry hidden under her behaviour, he knew he was not the only one scared out of his mind.  
He quietly took her hand in his own, squeezing it lightly, trying to convey a little bit of comfort, and she did the same.

But it didn't work, because all that Robb could think about was the fact that maybe he wouldn't see his father again, that he will die in the Crownlands and never return home, like Lady Catelyn died in Riverrun and never came North, to what was to be her new home.

Or maybe the fact that his father could return, but in a wooden coffin instead of atop his horse with a smile on his face for seeing his children after so long, that was the thing that made his heart tighten in his chest for fear.

Suddenly, a strong wind came howling down from the sky, surprising both the guards practising and two nearby servants who were carrying some wood for the keep.

Black clouds that had remained all day quietly at the edge of the sky, quickly covered the faint sunlight of Northern spring, throwing all of Winterfell in eerie darkness.  
The day was coming to a close, and Robb watched the heavens seethe as they covered the ancient fortress with solemn thunders and white bolts of lightning.

The ancient prayer found its way on his lips almost subconsciously.

_Protect us, sweet Elenei, from the rage of the storm._

And so, two days passed with only lashing rain to keep company to Winterfell inhabitants.  
Robb, being the interim Lord, offered shelter in the halls of the castle to any inhabitant of Wintertown who so desired.  
Many took up on this offer, happy to be safe behind the high walls of the ancient castle, so many that the young Stark had to order some servants to clean some of the old unused rooms in the old keep.  
Well, the ones without holes in the ceiling.  
But that wasn't a problem, Winterfell is one of the biggest castles in Westeros after all, space is not an issue.

Even if it was his first time being the Lord, Robb didn't find it too difficult or vexing.

Maybe the first time giving court he had been a little tense, but now, moons after his father left him in charge, he could proudly say he was doing a good job.  
 _At least I hope._

Of course, Maester Luwin and Vayon Poole were aiding him a lot, and well.

The young Stark lord was assisted on every important letter, any major issue that his father left behind, be it about the Night's Watch or the trade agreements with other various lords.  
Even Lyarra helped him, they would sit in the Lord's solar every morning and search through old and new documents, dusty books and tedious records to try and make the best of the situation they were in.  
Robb only hoped their parents would be proud.  
At times, watching his sister work, small shoulders hunched over some old agreement both of them could not make head or tail about it, he would ask himself about what would have changed if his mother was alive?

Would Lady Catelyn have loved Lyarra?

That question scares him.

He liked to think that yes, she could have loved her, because what mother doesn't love what her son does?

But he knows these matters are far more complicated and so he never asked his father.

Not that his father knew his mother well anyway.

The third day after the storm began, a pale sun started to peek shily from behind the clouds, and thanks to the light rain of that morning an enchanting rainbow appeared, herald for a beautiful day.

Robb was standing on the little balcony of his room, just wondering about unimportant things, right on the second-last floor of the family tower.  
His practice spear is abandoned near his boots, while his other training gear is probably lost somewhere.  
A small trout-adorned handkerchief, his mother's, occupies a honour place on the desk near some of his sister's charcoal drawings, while his old wooden knight toy keeps watch resting above an old sword hanged on the wall.  
The Godswood and the main yard stretched under his eyes , and there was something peaceful in watching the birds starting to fly in the morning and the first little columns of smoke rising from the kitchen and the bakeries of Wintertown.

_Today I'll have to give court again,_ he thought, watching some of his subjects enter from the South Gates.

He was just turning around to take the day's clothes and make himself presentable when he heard some huffing and the distinct noise of the Maester steps just behind his door.  
This is unusual, never has Maester Luwin come personally to his room at this hour in the morning, considered that Robb attends his lessons just after the breaking of fast in the great hall.  
Also, the Maester is old, it can't be easy for him to climb all the stairs to get here.

It was as if a cold snake started to constrict his stomach and his lungs, making him want to puke and simultaneously hindering his breaths.

But it was not guaranteed to be bad news, maybe it was only some changes in the schedule of the day, right?

_Calm down, worrying like that won't bear you anything._

The Maester announced his presence, his old and crackly voice tinted with something Robb couldn't place.

He answered and the door opened, creaking.  
Luwin had a letter in his end, an opened letter, with a crowned stag imprinted in the blood-red sealing wax.

_No, no, no, please,_ Robb pleaded, sweat starting to form on his palms.

This, this couldn't be happening, he tried to convince himself, it was just a dream.

_It's only news from King's Landing, not necessarily a bad thing, and I told the Maester to inform me immediately of everything new, didn't I?_

His eyes started to roam the room, searching for... For what?

Maybe something that could distract him, maybe something that proved this wasn't real, because maybe deep in his subconscious he was aware that something was wrong, but the grey tones of his room walls and his desk with countless doodles abandoned there by his sister did not give him any type of comfort.  
Every time he told himself this was nothing only dispelled this belief furthermore.  
Robb was there, standing in the centre of the room, and he felt useless, he was useless.  
He waited.

"My Lord," Luwin slowly spoke, clear compassion and sadness in his eyes.

"A raven arrived this morning after the storm subsided..."  
There was silence then, as if all the birds around Winterfell ceased to chirp, as if all the people going on their business just under his window had suddenly vanished.  
A drop of water could now be as loud as an army marching.

"It's Lord Eddard..."

Something inside Robb shattered.


	2. The letter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First thing first, I'd like to thank you all for the incredible amount of support that the first chapter received, I honestly couldn't believe it!  
> That said, I hope you'll also like this second chapter, even if it was a little more difficult for me to write.  
>  _flashbacks, thinking and letters._

_Lord Eddard Stark was waiting for him in the solar._ _Robb knew how much this impending journey to the capital was troubling his father, and the very visible eye bags adorning the man's face only confirmed it._ _The candle burning on the desk was nearly ending, had he been working all night?_

_"Son," even his voice was heavier than usual, "how are you this fine morning?"_

_"Fine, father, thank you," Robb answered, swiftly sitting down on the too-big chair that is usually reserved for those who the Lord of Winterfell wish to speak to in private._

_A moment of silence stretched between the two, interrupted a moment later by Lord Eddard opening a drawer. He took out a sealed letter, the running Direwolf of House Stark stamped on the blood-red sealing wax._

_"What do you remember about the Greyjoy Rebellion?"_

_It's a simple question, really, even if the burgundy-haired boy doesn't know why his father is asking him about it._ _Robb saw only five namedays before Lord Balon declared the Iron Islands' independence, and it was the first time he and Lyarra had to watch his father leave Winterfell for something more than a simple visit to a nearby Bannerman._

_But that letter, that letter he remembers very well._

_"You told me that if something were to happen to you," Robb readily replied, "I had to wait till I became the Lord, and then read the letter."_

_His father smiled, "and after that?"_

_"After that, I had to burn it," Robb recalled his five-year-old self wondering what incredible secrets could be hidden there._

_"Good, nothing changed," his father voice was final, and an instant later his right hand fell on Robb's shoulder, conveying love and support._

_Their eyes met, and it was one of the rare times that Lord Eddard's wasn't the cold and inflexible Warden of the North, but the parent of two wonderful children._

_"The words of your mother family ring true once again, my son."_

_Yes, family, duty, honour._

_"Family always come first," the man went on, "remember that."_

_Robb's eyes prickled, his throat dry._

_"The lone wolf dies but the pack survives, that's what your Grandfather told me, passed down by his own father and countless Starks before."_

_Ned Stark's hand ruffled his son's hair before retreating again._

_"Don't be afraid to ask for help if you believe it's the right thing to do, and remember," now his father eyes were even warmer, but intense, like dawn on a clear day, "Always stay true to yourself."_

* * *

Lyarra stirred another time in her bed, trying to find a more comfortable position to read in, her raven-black hair plastered all around her face, leaving a nice tingling sensation every time she tried to tuck a tuft over her ears. Faint sunlight filtered through the tents, revealing her modestly adorned room. An elegant loom stood near the window so that she could have the right light while working on her trousseau, while a small shelf held her favourite books, her most treasured possessions. Robb likes to joke that they will not have to find a husband for her because she's already married to Winterfell's library tower.

A sigh escaped her dry lips.

_What an idiot._

Lyarra likes children, likes to play with the servants' little boys and girls at pretend and at knights and princesses, and she loves to think that the young children like her back. Well, if they didn't like her they wouldn't try to crowd her every time she set foot out of the family wing, probably. Just the thought made her smile.

_And one day I'll have a good husband and good children to spoil._

Just after this thought, her cheeks reddened and she felt the sudden and pointless desire to hide her head under her bearskin pelt. Yes, because Lyarra is not stupid, she researched how adults are supposed to make children -she was curious after she overheard Jory talking about it with another guard- and right now she couldn't think about a more gross thing. Not like Robb, the only thing her brother knows is how to pester someone so much until they agree to play at one of his weird strategy games with him.

There was also the fact that she's technically a bastard, a stain on her father honour. But Lord Eddard had always treated her like a trueborn child, together with all of the castle inhabitants, no-one could ever accuse her of wrongdoing, her kindness, sensibility and beauty made her admired and loved. Only thinking about how lucky she was to be born in a family like this makes her heart burst from happiness.

_Even if I don't know who my mother is._

She knew how other bastards were treated in the rest of Westeros, except maybe in Dorne, and she would have believed she grew up in the Water Gardens if not for the constant snowfalls and perpetual cloudy sky. And maybe she would've if father didn't bring her to Winterfell, her dark skin told many stories. Also, the fact that she is one of the last Stark of the main-line caused many requests of marriage, only from seconds sons and minor Lords, obviously, she doesn't think his father bannerman would accept her for their heirs, even with all the admiration they have for Lord Eddard. Something about honour and decorum.

She sighed, watching the wooden beams of the ceiling. She wouldn't change her family for anything. 

And she knew that one day she would be legitimised, father is the best friend of the king after all, and practically promised it to her. And even if no-one ever called her Snow, only Lady Lyarra, she couldn't wait for that day to come, the day she would finally become a Stark.

Her eyes returned to the book pages, trying to find the right line.

Ah, there it was.

_Of the many surprising events happened at the end of King Robert's rebellion, the survival of Princess Rhaenys Targaryen was certainly the most unexpected._ _Both her mother, Elia Martell, and her brother, Prince Aegon Targaryen, were brutally killed amidst the sack of the city, and it is believed that only the presence of the valiant Ser Jaime Lannister, who is said to have found the princess wandering the halls of the Red Keep during the first hours after the breach, prevented further harm falling on Rhaenys._ _With Queen Rhaella, Prince Vyserys and an unnamed princess death on the following siege of Dragonstone, princess Rhaenys is now the only remaining member of the old DragonLords house._ _Only a moon later, in June 283 ac, after a reunion of the highest Lords of Westeros, together with the nominations for the now vacant seats in the small council, the fate of the princess was decided._ _Lord Jon Arryn took the seat of Hand of the king, imposing himself and House Arryn once again as the major supporters of King Robert, while Lord Hoster Tully occupied the seat of Master of Coin and Stannis Baratheon became Master of ships._ _The four namedays old princess Rhaenys was immediately betrothed to the future heir of King Robert, to be married as the latter reached seventeen years of age, to secure the legitimacy of the new dynasty._ _The half-dornish princess was to remain in the Red Keep, being raised as a ward of Jon Arryn and his new wife Lysa Tully._ _Lord Tywin Lannister, for his great and decisive actions towards seizing the throne from the Mad King, was rewarded with a promise of marriage for her daughter, the Lady Cersei, the light of the West, so that his grandson would one day sit on the Iron Throne._ _Only two years later, at the end of the year 285 after the conquest..._

Lyarra's eyes wandered again, leaving the end of the paragraph to watch some little and cute finches flutter around her half-closed window. It's not that this book was boring, just merely biased toward the Lannisters, probably written by some sycophant Maester, and Lyarra didn't like to read things like this, especially knowing all the horrible things that happened during the sack of the capital. She still remembered that time Lord Eddard called her and Robb in his solar to tell them about that day. She had never seen her father so... distraught, as if just recalling the events of that day made him sick. And later she understood why. Lyarra is sure that the most gruesome details had been omitted, but still, hearing about the horrible fate of little prince Aegon and princess Elia made her very scared. So scared that she had to sneak into Robb's bed that night for comfort. She remembered how much she cried, chanting in her head that _it wasn't fair._

_But the world isn't fair_ , a voice reminded her.

Poor Princess Rhaenys, forced to grow up in the place where her family had been killed.

Then, someone knocked.

Strange, her maids don't usually arrive this early. She muttered a 'come in', hoping that whoever was at the door could hear. And it was Jory Cassel, wearing the standard white and grey gambeson of the guards, with his half-helmet under his arm and the other hand on his hip, his dark hair was framing a small frown. Lyanna eyes fell unto him immediately.

_Why is he here?_

It was not a usual situation, many would describe it as improper, the captain of the guards isn't supposed to come to her room this hour of the morning, and so, Lyarra knew that something had happened. "Lady Lyarra, your brother sent me to escort you to his solar," he stated, and his tone was perfectly normal, not nervous or anxious or another thousand things that could alarm the two-and-ten namedays old girl. But the fact that Jory's called her 'Lady' when he usually just calls her 'Lyarra' or 'little wolf', at least when they're not in public, was enough to worry her. Anxiety started to pool in her chest, and for a moment, her breathing quickened a little bit. But she had to stay calm, this could be nothing, heavens, it could be a stupid joke from Robb. If it's a joke she is going to kill him though, that idiot. So she got up, straightening her nightgown, put on her leather shoes and started to follow Jory, leaving the familiar warmth of her chamber behind.

They only had to go down three floors worth of stairs, her room is under Robb's and the solar is still in the family tower. Detailed tapestries of ancient wars and even more ancient kings of winter watched her, seemingly following her with their eyes, but she can be here, she knows, she is a Stark, as her father and brother are, no more and no less. They arrived at the right door and Jory, ever the gentleman, opened it for her as she smiled and thanked him while entering the room. 

But her smile slowly died, making space for the preoccupation that was eating at her mere moments ago, she saw a tense Robb seating in the Lord's chair, with Maester Luwin at his side, and they were probably discussing something important judging by the big frown and uneasy expression on her brother's face. She also noticed the steward, Vayon Poole, searching for something in the Lord's records while the Lady Lake, the woman charged with what usually would be the Lady of the castle duties, was helping him. Well, this could not possibly be good, why were they all here? Something must've happened, heavens, something important, considering that all of her house's most trusted advisors were in the solar at this hour. She twirled a lock of her black hair, trying to calm herself. It wasn't working a lot.

As Robb noticed her entrance, he got up and started to approach her, a doleful expression on his face. His steps were stilted, lifeless, almost pained, so different from every time he runs towards her, grinning, ready to brag about some new move he did in a spar with Ser Rodrik. The ill-fated foreboding that followed her since she left her chamber was now even stronger.

_No no no no no, this cannot be happening,_ she suddenly thought, because her brother is the strongest person she knows, even if she didn't know that many, and he always smiles, she had never seen something this... broken, on Robb's face. And suddenly she knew, as he hugged and held her tight, and the world around started to feel heavy, she didn't need her brother to pronounce those words, even if he did say them, but she would have known regardless. Her shoulders fell, her knees unsteady and she had to lean into him for a small moment, searching for comfort. Every night since father went away she fell asleep chanting in her head that her preoccupations and anxiety weren't justified.

She was wrong.

She was so wrong.

Only mere minutes ago she was reading a book, how had they arrived here? Their father, the strong and just Lord Eddard Stark, how could he be...? Her train of thoughts halted, and this sudden despair started to fade as she realized that her brother was being strong for her, so it wasn't fair that she was practically having a breakdown in his arms. He needed her then, just as much as she needed him.

"Are you sure?" Lyarra whispered.

He nodded.

The last sliver of hope she was holding onto so desperately broke. Slowly, she took Robb's hands and held them in hers, her eyes found him and she could see his bright blue orbs somewhat moist, and her heart warmed up a little.

"Are you okay?" Lyarra asked, and it was a stupid question because of course Robb wasn't okay, what was she even thinking?

But it was sheer gratitude she saw on her brother's face.

Suddenly, everything seemed just a bit brighter. The cloud of despair that was hovering over her faded a little, and Lyarra knew that it would quickly return but knowing that she wasn't alone made her believe maybe they could be strong together.

_We are a family._

She dragged him to the old chest in the corner and they sat on it, as they used to do when they were younger. The following silence was more than welcome. Lyarra had never been one for big dreams, she didn't want the shining knights of the stories to sweep her off her feet, no handsome princes to fall in love with her, she just wanted to marry a good man in the Godswood of her home, in front of the familiar weeping face of the Heart-tree, escorted at the ceremony by her old grey-haired father.

And now fate took that from her.

_Damn it._

Her blood boiled, and she had to close her eyes for a second. And wasn't it helpful that Eddard Stark's smiling face was the only thing welcoming her behind her eyelids? And so the two siblings waited.

"Hm-hmm."

Every head in the room turned toward Vayon Poole, who just coughed to get everyone attention. If asked to describe him, Lyarra would call him an average man in his mid-forty, with black short hair surrounding a typically northern face and a short beard. A full moon, the symbol of his small house, is sewed on his garment.

"My Lord, My Lady," he said, "I'm pained by the news, and once again I renew my will to do _anything_ ," the man put particular emphasis on the word 'anything', "to help you."

"That said," the steward kept talking, "we need to talk about what we need to do now."

And Lyarra wanted to shout, wanted to club him on the head for simply thinking forward, as if Lord Stark's d... d-death was only a small obstacle to surmount. But Vayon Poole seemed to know this and prevented her, she apparently wasn't so good at concealing emotions, at least not right now.

"My Lady Lyarra, the situation is direr than we think, we have to react, and react fast, or we could find ourselves in a very, _very_ bad spot."

It was only Robb's hand tightening around hers that prevented a very, _very_ rude answer.

"There's nothing to discuss," her brother intervened, "I will take the mantle of Lord of Winterfell immediately."

The way he said it made Lyanna think that maybe they were talking about this even before she was called here. _Discussing, more than talking,_ she thought, seeing the mild glare the young Lord was sending to his steward.

"I am your humble servant, Lord Robb, and I will, of course, serve you, as I served your father when he took his rightful place after the Rebellion," Poole answered with a smooth voice, "but I'm not the problem."

"I can't see how the King can possibly be a problem," Robb seemed calm but Lyarra could see that it was only a façade, he clearly wanted to end this conversation as soon as possible. "He was my father friend and foster brother, I don't think he will prefer to make someone the Warden until I'm old enough, also because _I am_ old enough."

Robb's voice is not wavering, full of finality, and even if it seems that both Luwin and Vayon wanted to protest, he didn't stop. "Moreover, father was Jon Arryn's ward, and Jon Arryn is Warden of the Vale and Hand of the King, while my grandfather, Lord Hoster, is Warden of the Riverlands and Master of Coin, I don't think they will permit someone to come here and take my birthright while I'm alive."

At that moment, Lyarra was even prouder of her brother.

"I understand your reasoning Lord Robb, but there are many at court who would like to gain influence here, in our land, we should at least talk about a candidate we like for this positions if we are to..." Vayon was suddenly interrupted by Lyarra's voice.

"Osric Stark was elected as Lord Commander of the Night's Watch at only ten years old, that is a precedent, and we can always write to the king, I don't think he will ignore a letter from his best friend's son."

Robb tilted his head towards her, warmly muttering a quick thank-you.

Both Luwin and Poole did not seem satisfied by this conclusion, but they still bowed their heads, together with Lady Lake, to show their deference.

"Now I need to speak with my sister, I will send a guard to call you when I've finished. Ah, Maester Luwin!"

The old man, who was about to exit the room, stopped.

"Remember to immediately send those letters."

"I will, Lord Robb."

So, heeding the words of their young Lord, the two children were left alone in the solar, with only Jory Cassel as a guard outside the door.

Lyarra couldn't wait anymore, tears started to fall silently from her eyes, marking her sun-kissed cheeks, and soon Robb joined her. It wouldn't help the situation they were in but it certainly was cathartic. There were many things that she didn't understand right now, and many others that unfortunately she did understand but that she wouldn't think about because they _hurt._ But one thing she had to ask.

"Have you already written to Uncle Ben?"

Robb's eyes were pained. He nodded.

"Oh," Lyarra whispered dejected, and she could say another million things but maybe not even one could describe how she was feeling now. As if there was a knife stuck in her back, but one she didn't know how to remove, and so it stayed there, hurting. _And it hurts so much._ Images upon images were overrunning her mind, memories of the little girl she was and how her father would take her and spin her around the Godswood, she would laugh, and then Lord Eddard would hug her and tell her how proud he was. Her father was stern, sure, but every little accomplishment was rewarded with the smile she always loved more than anything.

_"You're so clever Lya, but also wild like the northern wind, like your aunt Lyanna was."_

Remembering that particular moment was making her throat dry.

"T-then why..." she started to ask but suddenly her words were blocked in her throat.

Only watching Robb, knowing the pain that he was surely going through, gave her the strength to continue and not to just return to her chamber and stay in bed all day. The same two-and-ten namedays old boy who only a few moons ago liked to play and joke with her at every possible time now has to take upon himself all the responsibilities of Warden of the North. She can't leave him alone now.

"Why did we received the letter only now?"

"They said the illness was fast, and Luwin believes the King didn't want to make us worry, so they wrote only when the situation was... too far gone," Robb answered.

And Lyarra's temper flares another time, hot like fire. 

"That's not fair!"

"Oh, I know," the red-haired boy said unhappily, "but what does it matter now?"

Lyarra didn't know how to respond.

"Luwin also said..." Her brother started, but another moment of silence stretched as he lost himself in watching the looming form of Ice, House Stark's ancestral Sword, fixed over the chimney. But he suddenly resumed talking, as if nothing happened.

"Said that another raven is coming to tell us that they will send him back here."

_They will send him._

It's not fair. It's not.

And now more than ever she wants to run to the Godswood and cry and shout and ask the Old Gods why they had to take their father, someone so honourable and good. She didn't think they would answer. Robb came once again to her, holding out a small embroidered white handkerchief that Lyarra soon had to use to dry all the tears that were trailing on her cheeks.

She whispered a small 'Thank you.'

"What are we going to do now?"

She asked because she has to know what is going to happen if she wants to help Robb.

_And I am gonna help him, no doubt about it, he'll need it._

Luwin and Poole were right, her brother was strong and clever but his age would be a big obstacle, even with their help in taking care of the more complicated issues. Not that she was older, but two brains are better than one, right? He could do it, she was sure, and there was no-one she would stay behind if not him, no-one she would call liege if not her brother, so strong and righteous.

"I want to keep working on father's plan to restore the Night's Watch," Robb meanwhile answered, watching some papers on the oaken desk, "I know it is not wise to spend so much money during a shift in power, but it was his goal, to guide the order to its former glory, when it was an honour to serve at the Wall with the noblest warriors of the realm, so we will keep going."

"Of course," the black-haired girl nodded, fully agreeing with him. The map between them depicted the Wall and all of his castles, with little notes, probably made by Lord Eddard, scribbled near every name. Robb was studying the map, but it seemed like he couldn't concentrate very much.

"Westwatch-by-the-Sea and Rimegate have been already repaired and remanned, right?"

Lyarra's voice seemed to at least bring back her brother to the matter at hand, who immediately searched the little drawings of the two castles.

"Oh yes," the young Lord answered.

"House Stark will repair old farms in the Gift and New Gift and provide seeds and livestock for the family of every man that takes the black."

She nodded.

"They'll be under the jurisdiction of the Black Brothers, but a third of their taxes will go to Queenscrown, that is also expanding, and then to us." He looked up, noticing the expression on the grey-eyed girl face.

"... You already knew, didn't you?"

"Yes," a small stupid smile stretched on her lips.

"But you looked a bit better when you were explaining it."

And he did, and it was that that made Lyarra smile.

"Well, I also have a thing that will make you smile," Robb replied while searching for something in the mess that was now his new desk.

"Oh, and what would it be?" 

"I sent a letter to the King with my wish to legitimise you, and he will do it," Robb said surely, and Lyarra knows that it's the most logical step to do now, she is the heir after all, but she probably has the stupidest expression on her face right now.

_Lady Lyarra Stark..._

Didn't it sound good just dreaming about it?

...

"Are you okay? Should I call back the Maester?"

_Idiot._

* * *

As his sister walked out of the room to go pray in the Godswood, Robb was left alone with his thoughts. This bit of time with Lyarra helped him to shed a bit of the heaviness he felt since Maester Luwin came to him this morning with that accursed letter. Now this was _his solar,_ not his father, and he was now the Warden of the North.

He still didn't believe it.

Why? How could it have happened? Only yesterday he was worried about such trivial things, and now all the North answered to him. He felt like a giant weight was now residing on his shoulder, hindering every step he took, and it was suffocating. His father taught him well obviously, Eddard Stark was very beloved by his subjects, noble and smallfolk alike, furthermore, he was one of the most skilled commanders in Westeros, but he didn't always have time to pass on his wisdom to his children. His eyes searched independently for his Lord father's journal of the rebellion, maybe it could distract him a bit. He already read the small booklet, even if he wasn't able to understand it completely at the time.

Maybe he would try again. He had always been fascinated by the solar, it was as if he could sense all of the Starks that were here before him, every King and Lord left at least one thing, like the giant stuffed white-boar head over the old chimney, or the old iron crown of the King-who-knelt closed in a small box near Brandon the Breaker's tapestry.

Robb also wanted to pray, but he first had to take all the documents waiting for his seal and review them.

_Or at least that's what Vayon Poole said._

All the things he settled during the past courts, he had to confirm and mark with his Warden Seal, so that his orders could be carried out. It's on the Lord's ring, and his family's one depicts the head of a Direwolf between two tall towers, the tallest towers of the Nightfort and Moat Cailin if he's not mistaken. Every warden of Westeros has one, and it gives the power to recruit troops and call the banners in the respective domain, so it's probably the most precious possession of every high Lord, its theft or falsification warrants an immediate death sentence for the perpetrator and all his family. Every letter to his vassals with the order of calling the banners should have the seal imprinted, without the permission of your liege rallying troops is considered an act of Rebellion. The only Houses excluded are of course the houses Paramount, the King of the Seven Kingdoms cannot prevent them to call armies if not with concrete proof of treasonous intent or threat to the stability of the Seven Kingdoms themselves. And that's why so many houses _crave_ the position of Warden. The face of his father explaining all of this to him suddenly resurfaced in Robb's mind, hitting him with a wave of melancholy. 

_Why did you have to go?_

The hours passed, and after another bit of work he remembered that he had to take court today, and right then he really didn't want to sit on the Old Throne of Winter and hear every little problem that came up in his land, he wasn't in the mood. But he also couldn't delegate to Vayon Poole his first acts as an official Lord.

 _Gods_.

And so he begrudgingly went, nothing major had happened, Luwin sent the letters regarding the news about his father, but a lot of time will pass before his vassals' ravens would return with their declarations of fealty. Except for the Lord's directly under Winterfell rule, of course, like Lord Cerwyn and Lord Lake, who arrived five days after bringing their whole family, while Lord Tallhart and Lord Brighstone were expected at the end of the week. Even the villages' elders, from Stonewell and Whitetree and other small settlements, came to pay their respects to their new Lord.

It was strange for Robb, seeing all these grown men kneel before him, and every time they did a little pang of hurt would resonate in his heart because it reminded him of the time his father would welcome the boastful Greatjon and quiet Lord Glover in the Great Hall. A look of longing appeared once again on his face.

But at least he had Lyarra helping him, always at his side, and she clearly took to her new roles better than him, because even if Robb knows that she also misses their father terribly, at least she is better than him at concealing it.

And so the days passed, not too different from each other, with Robb warming his way into his new role.

The plague was slowly spreading in Manderly Lands, even if Lord Wyman was a very capable Lord and was doing a great job at containing it and limiting the casualties, but Robb still had to close the little bridge at Breakwater village, the one who connects Stark's lands to Manderly ones. Another problem was the river trade up the White Knife, and Robb had to dispatch little units of soldiers to install a quarantine in strategic points.

A thing he learned very quickly is that there is never enough money.

_Never._

Every little endeavour requires golden stags and silver moons, being a House Paramount, house Stark has a lot of money, though the likes of the Lannisters and Tyrells are in a completely different league. Even with the help of capable men like his steward, keeping track of everything is nearly impossible. However, when Lyarra came to him requiring a hundred golden stags for making something somewhere, Robb just had to give them to her, because she asked nicely.

He was again in the solar, reading the proclamation of fealty of his distant cousin Lord Rickard Karstark, when he noticed the empty inkpot on his left, next to his quill.

_Well, that won't do._

He opened the drawer, searching for more ink, when between all the shuffling he noticed that there was a seating direwolf carved on the bottom wood of said drawer.

_What?_

_Why_?

It could be some strange oddity of one of his predecessors, of course.

_Or maybe not._

And then he remembered.

He remembered that conversation with his father just before he set out for King's Landing, probably the most important thing Lord Eddard ever told him. How could he have forgotten?

With incredible speed, all of the drawer contents were wildly pulled out in search for the yellowish envelope with the Stark seal on it.

_The letter, I forgot the letter, what is wrong with me?_

Maybe it was the recent loss, or maybe something else, but Robb apprehension was growing every second he didn't found the object. He watched desperate all the things that were disorderly spread on the desk, but it was not there.

_Think, think, father said it was in the drawer, in that drawer._

He had to stop and exhale for a moment, he had to calm down.

_Right, let's keep going._

All the remaining parts of the desk were searched by the young Lord Stark, but nothing unusual came up. Half an hour later, Robb had to grudgingly admit defeat. The ancient oaken desk that dutifully served countless Stark Lords was practically dismembered.

_It's not here, it doesn't make sense but it's not here._

Putting his hands in his hair, his eyes fell once again on the engraved sigil on the drawer.

It was on the floor, surrounded by unnumbered documents and piece of parchment.

_And later I'll have to tidy all this mess up._ _It's not going to be fun._

He sighed, but suddenly a new idea appeared in his mind. And it's stupid, and he should've got there sooner.

_An hidden compartement._

He practically threw himself to the floor, his thin fingers trying to find a small space near the Direwolf carving that could be relieved to see if there was indeed something under it.

**Clack.**

_There you are, I found you._

As the bottom of the drawer came up, he finally saw it, the letter is exactly as he remembered it, only the angles were maybe a little bit more creased. He reverently took it. His letter-opener, as sharp as ever, found immediately the top of the envelope, cutting it and permitting Robb to eagerly take the parchment inside. He was still sitting on the floor, his legs crossed and his clothes had seen better days, but he didn't care, these were the last words left by his father, the noble and honourable Lord Eddard Stark, he didn't have time to sit on a chair and making his long hair presentable.

There was no one watching him now after all.

Robb unfolded the missive in his hands and started to read.

_Dear Son,_

_if you're reading this, know that I am sorry._ _I'm not a stranger to the pain of losing a father, and it saddens me to think that you will have to bear the same burden I had to._ _Truly, the only thing that kept me from drowning in grief was the unconditioned support of my foster father, Jon Arryn, and my brother, Robert Baratheon._ _It's important to have someone that understands you and that can share your pain or you will not overcome it._ _I know how much you love Lyarra and how much she loves you in return, I have no doubt she also will be troubled, so help her, protect her, and she will surely do the same._ _Know that I never imagined that I would one day become the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, it was my brother Brandon's birthright, it's not an easy task and you will certainly encounter doubts and hard decisions, it is normal and you will overcome them, I'm sure of it._ _Just remember that you're not alone, the Maester, the steward and all of the other servants are loyal, treat them with respect and they will follow you wherever you go. Keep traditions, permit a servant every night to dine on your left, at the high table, you'll have to know your men and women._

At this point a sentence was erased, the black ink smeared.

_Now, as I certainly told you when speaking of this letter, I once again remember you to burn it after its reading._ _What I'm going to tell you now is a terrible truth, one I have kept hidden these last years to protect your sister and our family._ _Maybe I was wrong, maybe I've done many a wrongdoing, but I guess it doesn't matter, I acted believing that what I did was the rightest and most honourable thing, and faced with the same decisions today I would do the same._ _While the first part of the letter I had written before leaving to fight Balon Greyjoy and his rebellion, I am rewriting this part the eve of my departure for the capital, and I'd like to say that I'm proud of the man you are and will become, as I'm proud of the woman Lyarra is and will be._

Small tears were forming in Robb's eyes, but even then he wouldn't stop reading, and so the small drop fell on the parchment.

_I sincerely don't know how to tell you this, so I will start with a story._ _Once I heard Lord Nan telling you and your sister about the Tower of Joy, and I still remember your proud eyes as she described how I defeated in combat Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the morning._ _Well, there were two other Kingsguards there, in that forsaken hill in the Dornish mountains, waiting for me and my escort. They were Oswell Whent, your mother cousin, and Gerold Hightower, the White Bull and Lord Commander._ _Lord Willam Dustin, Ethan Glover, Theo Wull, Martyn Cassel, Ser Mark Ryswell and Howland Reed were by my side._ _Brave Northerners, all of them, they died fighting the most skilled knights of the realm and were buried there, under the scorching sun, only I and Lord Howland survived. My heart still aches every time I think about them._ _Then, up in the tower, we found my sister, Lady Lyanna._ _She was beyond pale, sitting on the bed with pillows under her to help stay upright and with her small hands placed on her belly. Blood painted the room all around her, on the bedsheets and even a little bit on the floor._ _I couldn't breathe._ _But Lyanna wasn't alone in the room, at her side sat another woman, who later I learned was a wet nurse named Wylla._ _And in Wylla's arms a baby was wailing._ _She gave them to me, and I immediately saw a tuft of black hair and small blue-grey eyes watching me with curiosity. The infant was clearly my sister daughter; Lyanna named her Alysanne, as the good queen that gave her jewels and the New Gift to the Night's watch, a name with importance for both the Starks and the Targaryens._ _I will not name the father, the man gave me much grief, his actions alone caused deaths upon deaths in all of the seven kingdoms._ _Many time I asked myself if Lyanna was truly abducted, as the minstrels like to sing, but I didn't found any answer in the tower, and my sister passed on before I could ask her._ _But I guess it doesn't matter anymore._ _And so I found myself with this newborn baby, Howland Reed and the wetnurse Wylla setting out for Starfall._ _On the way to the Daynes' castle, I chose to claim Alysanne as my bastard, and call her Lyarra._ _Your sister, Robb._ _I love her so much, she is my daughter and she is your sister, but she is also Lyanna's daughter._ _I had to do it, I had just left King's Landing sacked and with only little princess Rhaenys alive, while the rest of the royal family was butchered by the men of Tywin Lannister._ _Later, as Stannis Baratheon commanded a fleet set to conquer Dragonstone, Queen Rhaella and her other children were lost, their ship was probably surprised by a storm while they were escaping towards Essos._ _Robert's hatred towards everything Targaryen was already infamous, and I had to protect Lyarra._ _I leave you with this hard truth because you are now the Stark in Winterfell, you have to know so that you can protect her._ _I would have probably told her when she reached majority, so that she could marry knowing her true origins, even if they are terrible._ _Now it's up to you._ _I know you'll not disappoint me, Robb._ _I couldn't have wished for better children._

_Eddard Stark_

The day was ending and the sun painted the sky in a poetic shade of red, inside of Lord Stark solar, in the highest tower of Winterfell, Robb sat motionless while the shadows stretched around him. His eyes were still fixed on his father signature at the end of the letter, his mind going a mile a minute.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I thank all of you who who bookmarked, kudosed and commented the first chapter, and as always I would be more than happy to answer to every comment if you have something to say.  
> I also wanted to give a special thanks to my best friend, who was very supportive.  
> I hope you enjoyed your reading.


	3. Interlude: Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Small moments between Ned, Lyarra and Robb.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, this isn't a real chapter, but the two one shots that inspired this story, and I wanted to upload them here because I believe they can give a little more depth to Ned's relationship with Robb and Lyarra, but if I see that they're too disruptive to the story maybe I'll remove them, feel free to tell me what you think in the comments. Hope you'll like it!

**Memories**

_Robb anxiously watched the shadows dancing on the familiar walls of his room, the weak light of the candle on his bedside table creating the trembling swirls of these shapeless forms._ _A moonless night hides monsters, and lonely children attract magic, that's what the old stories tell._

_Only four namedays old, still, he is the heir of House Stark, he shouldn't be sitting in bed scared by old Nan tales, they're not true, father said so._

_Nevertheless, his bare feet touched the wooden floor, sending a small shiver up his spine, and he took the small candle and started to head to his father's bedroom. The_ _guard outside the Lord's chamber, young Alyn, smiled to him as he quietly entered._

_Robb's eyes fell immediately on the big bulk hidden by blankets right in the middle of the two-post bed. He_ _slipped in, blowing out the candle._

_Warmth immediately surrounded him, and he felt the tall form of Lord Eddard shift._

_"Robb, is that you?" The man asked with a tired and raspy voice._

_"Yes, father."_

_"Did you have a nightmare?"_

_The boy hummed, basking in the caring tone of his parent._

_"Maybe I could tell you a story?"_

_Robb nodded, still curled up in the Lord's bed. His_ _father took a sip from a goblet at his right before leaning up against the wall and starting to talk._

_"When I was little, my mother used to tell me about Theon Stark, the Hungry Wolf," he paused, his hand rubbing soothingly on his son's back, "he lived thousands of years ago, when the Andals left their shores to conquest the hundreds of Kingdoms of Westeros._ _T_ _he first men of the Vale already fell to Ser Artys Arryn, the falcon knight, and in the rest of the south Andal influence was growing, spreading their faith and traditions._ _B_ _ut the first men were armed with mere bronze, while the Andal Knights had iron weapons, more durable and strong. So_ _King Theon took his fleet and landed his army on Andalos' coast, sacking villages and cities who only had old men and young boys to defend them, and so finally learning the secret of iron."_

_Robb listened enraptured, even if his father told this story many times already._

_"He could've returned triumphantly to the North, but the King had one last prey, the first Sept on the Hill of Hugor, where statues of the seven sculpted by the Mother herself were said to rest._ _T_ _hat day, the most beautiful Andal princess, lady Arra Sevenstar, went to the first Sept to pray for the safety of her family, protected by the seventy-seven sword of her retinue._ _The Northmen returned to Winterfell with the most valuable of spoils."_

_Robb's eyes were slowly closing, but this was his favourite part! Just the way his father told it._

_"But the all the Andal Kings' gaze fell then on the lands above the neck, they wouldn't let their most valued princess in the hands of Theon._ So _Theon married her."_

_A bell echoed in the distance, the changing of guard._

" _They never had children, and when the King died the throne passed to the first son of his first marriage, while princess Arra grew old in the warm halls of Winterfell._ _Theon had managed to maintain peace with both his enemies and his bannermen, who wouldn't have accepted a half-Andal prince."_

_Ned watched little Robb, now peacefully sleeping, and smiled._

_In a small cave under the Godswood seven wooden statues waited in the darkness._

* * *

_Lyarra followed gingerly her father steps, getting out of the keep and walking past the Godswood._

_Where was he taking her?_

_They stopped in front of a door -probably the oldest thing she had ever seen, all run-down and rusty- near the Broken Tower, the old gargoyles with their stone horns and wings waiting for a bit of rain with their mouths wide open._ _Her father pulled out an old key from a pouch only to insert it in the keyhole with a smooth and obviously familiar movement._

_The hinges creepily creaked as a descending stone stairway was revealed._ _Lord Eddard lighted an oil lamp and started to go down without even sparing a glance to Lyarra, he knew she would follow him without complaint._ _Where are they? What will they do? Why isn't Robb here with them?_

_The first thing to greet them was an old statue, a sword on its knees, a crown on its head and a direwolf at its side, and words couldn't describe how much imposing it was._ _And Lyarra realized they were in the crypts._ _The small girl remembered being told they would one day visit the dead, but only when she was older and ready._

_Maybe now she was._

_And if her father believed so, she would not be scared by all the old Kings of Winter whispering to her._ _And they went down and down, through long tunnels and dripping halls, only to stop at an alcove where three statues rested, two men and a woman._

_The light uncovered their features, and for a small moment she watched as her father remained there, just looking._

_Then he talked._

_"This was your aunt Lyanna," he said, and his voice was far far away, "she was beautiful and kind, and sometimes she would anger me or my other siblings, but then forgiving her would be the easiest thing in the world, she was just like that."_

_He put a hand on Lyarra head, ruffling her hair._ _"Everybody loved her, just like you, little star."_

_His eyes shifted to the statue in the middle._

_"This was your grandfather, Rickard. He was a difficult man, always giving politics more thought than family, but he did love his children, as every father should."_

_The light wavered, making the stone faces seem even more alive._

_"And that was your uncle, Brandon. He had the wolf-blood, he always took what he wanted but he defended fiercely what he loved, and a day doesn't pass where I don't see him in your brother, and I couldn't be prouder."_

_Lyarra knew her father, she heard the cracks in his voice, and now he was being strong for her, but maybe if he was alone he would've cried._

_She watched again these statues that in another life could've been her family, and vowed that the next time she visited the glass-gardens she would pluck a flower for each of them, so they would know they were remembered._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks for reading and thanks to everyone that kudos, bookmarked and left a comment, you're so kind! I will probably upload the next chapter in 4 days. And thank you again!


	4. Gifts from the Gods

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the fourth chapter, hope you'll like it, I wasn't able to upload it as soon as I wanted but these last days were so, so busy. as always thank you for reading!

The white-ish sandstone walls of Riverrun rose tall at the confluence of the Tumblestone and the Red Fork, the muddy waters peacefully flowing as a solitary figure awaited atop the western gate, watching the horizon. Clearly of noble stock, in her late-fifties, Lady Minisa Tully neè Whent donned a long and garnished dress gently hugging her short form, some light makeup hid the odd wrinkle near her azure eyes and small mouth, while her elegantly combed hair shined red with only a little hint of grey, leaving her shoulders bare. An ideal noblewoman, in fewer words. Her gaze surveyed the horizon, waiting, and a radiant smile graced her face as the telltale glint of a column of knights appeared in the distance, the banners of house Tully shining under the sun of a mild Riverland's afternoon. Edmure Tully, the heir of Riverrun, was returning from a visit to his father, Lord Hoster, in King's Landing. Her son, her beautiful and considered and well-mannered son, right at the head of the retinue, as he rightfully should be. Pride reflected in her features and she slowly lifted her long flowing gown to head to the main courtyard, where all the arriving party would dismount, and where the rest of the castle's retainers were waiting in line to greet their returning future Lord.

Many times Minisa daughters had been praised for their loveliness, and seeing the youthful girl demurely waiting in a lovely red dress, the fluttering breeze caressing her copper hair, she understands why. She is just as her mother was at a young age, on her way to become one of the most beautiful women in all of Westeros. Her fourth and last child, little Aldora, a name she chose for in The Seven-Pointed Star so is called the daughter of Hugor of the Hill, Aldora, the winged gift.

And she truly is a gift. Nine and ten years ago she had her most difficult pregnancy carrying Edmure, her only son, and when she recovered whispers travelled the land telling about how the Lady of Riverrun's womb became as barren as the deserts of Dorne. Yet, at the end of the Rebellion, her husband gave her another joy.

_They say she is my spitting image, but her lips and cheeks are all Hoster._

And her resemblance to her two older sisters is breathtaking. Many times Minisa slipped and called her Catelyn or Lysa, albeit her youngest daughter could not be more different in behaviour and manners.

But it is not appropriate to lose oneself in melancholy memories, especially in such a festive day. The Maester bowed his head as the Lady of the castle took her place. Aldora straightened, trying to mimic her mother's noble bearing. Only minutes later Edmure was first through the gates, laughing at something his best friend, Patrek Mallister -the heir of Seagard- said. He clearly tried to grow a beard, and it was only a red stubble, but it didn't disfigure coupled with his well-combed hair and ever easy-going expression. His young eyes shined as his eyes found his mother and sister, and the blue-eyed woman noticed how he appeared far more mature, more aware than the boy who left only a couple of moons earlier. And so he approached, followed by his highborn companions, as tradition dictates.

"Mother," Edmure sweetly said, performing a fairly adequate bow, but still not good enough for one of his station. Something will have to be done in that regard.

"Welcome back, my son, how was your journey?" The red-haired Lady asked, meanwhile assessing all the other men around her son. As he started to excitedly recount his little adventures on the roads and castles all around the Riverlands and Crownlands, with little Aldora hanging on his words with a merry smile, Minisa tried to find the sight of a falcon insignia somewhere in the crowd of nobles that had formed.

There wasn't.

_Oh, Lysa..._

With formal regards out of the way and hospitality offered, all the castle inhabitants swiftly returned to their daily duties. This is how a castle should work, efficiency and speed are the keys.

"Are you searching for Robin, mom?" Sonia inquired, the little girl's attention returned to her mother with Edmure leading all his friends to the great hall. Minisa eyes fell once again on the little group. With him, other than Ser Patrek, were also Marq Piper and Lymon Goodbrook, both of them wearing a very light and bright-coloured attire adorned with their house symbols, the dancing maiden and the blue wavy bend on golden, respectively. She once again mulled over her son's choices of companions, and even if many times her disapproval about it had been more than noticeable, she felt happy, deep down, that Edmure had friends that cared about him, people of his age he could relate to. Still, they were not going to become important men in the future -except for the Mallister heir- and they weren't either the best influence.

She tried many times to give no heed to the rumours wandering her halls, but even she heard of that thrice-damned bard and the now infamous 'floppy fish'. The first time that unbecoming song reached her ears she nearly choked on the drink she was having.

_They should try to at least control their needs, always drinking and visiting pleasure houses._

It was not a bad thing per se, Minisa remembered very well how Hoster and Brynden were in their youth before they became the Lord of Riverrun and the Blackfish, so happy and carefree, close as two brothers should be. She met them at Lord Blackwood's marriage, nearly five and thirty years ago right now, and when a young and handsome Hoster asked for her favour before the joust she couldn't turn him down. And that small square of cloth with tiny bats embroidered still rests in their chambers. But a mother knows her children, and Minisa knows Edmure has neither the political acuity of his father nor the skills at war of his uncle. He will need help or the ever-greedy Riverlords will eat him alive.

A small tug on her blue and red silk sleeve made her return to reality, bringing back attention to the pleading blue eyes of her daughter.

_And what I wouldn't do for these bright blue eyes._

"Yes, Aldora?" she asked smiling, taking her small hand and starting to head towards the family wing.

"You said that cousin Robin would come to visit," the young girl quietly complained, skipping on the flagstones of the flooring of the courtyard, "and don't call me that, call me Aldi, please," she pouted. It would even be funny if they hadn't this discussion at least ten times a day. And to call a noblewoman with a nickname, how _rude_ and _vulgar_.

Little Robin Arryn, Sweetrobin as his mother likes to call him, is not Aldora's cousin of course, but her nephew, technically, still Minisa always told her to call him cousin, seeing that they are the same age.

"I know, but surely Lysa wants him to remain with her in King's Landing," she explained, hoping that her daughter would leave it and avoid asking once again about her older sister's... peculiarities. She didn't want to have another discussion about that right now.

_I hoped my wayward daughter would at least permit her spoiled son a visit to his grandma and his mother part of the family's ancestral home, but I guess even that is asking too much. Still, Aldora does need a friend of her age and Robin would have been perfect, maybe he would've even matured a little._ _Then why isn't my nephew here?_ _And King's Landing is not even safe, they should at least return to the Eyrie. How did she become so bitter? It can't possibly be only misplaced motherly worry, I taught her much better than that, she's a Tully._

A small shard of uneasiness crept in the back of her mind.

_I'll ask Edmure later, maybe there's something I do not know, a missing piece._

"But you said you also told Lysa to come." Her daughter reiterated with a raised eyebrow, crossing her arms, a clear hint of unfairness in her girlish voice.

_Cheeky girl, don't play games with the one who taught you about them._

Still, Minisa answered. "She just wants to stay with her husband, sweetie, but I promise that I'll write to them and maybe when it's safer they'll come," and the Lady of trouts' words were honey, but Aldora wouldn't obviously fall for it, she wasn't a simpleton after all. "Now why don't you go to your brother and his friend to ask them if they met the princess?" She asked, nudging her towards the direction the young men were now resting. Her lovely daughter didn't seem happy, but she could recognize a dismissal, thus she defiantly turned around without even a small farewell and started running towards Edmure, nearly colliding with a poor and unsuspecting guard on patrol.

It's difficult at times, Aldora is stubborn and clever, and curious and rebellious, and they're not traits appropriate for a noblewoman. She needs to be aware of the place she'll have in this world. Still, she loves her so much. Hoster didn't want her to risk another pregnancy, but now she can't imagine a world without her last daughter in it, she truly had been a blessing from the Seven, gifted to her on a cloudless night with a full moon.

_Well, fishwives always liked to say that the moon helps a woman get with child._

Truly a blessing, because only a year earlier, at the end of Robert's rebellion, Minisa's firstborn, Lady Catelyn, died, right here in Riverrun. She had been inconsolable. Both Hoster and Brynden, her pillars of strength, were still at war, marching to King's Landing after the decisive Battle of the Trident, while Lysa had been sent to the Eyrie for protection in the impregnable castle she would have to learn to rule, only a seven-year-old Edmure remained here in the Tullys' ancestral seat with her. She doesn't like to think about those days. And then, that utter _bastard_ Ned Stark arrived, with an illegitimate daughter in tow no less, took her first grandchild, little Robb, and brought him immediately to that forsaken fortress in the middle of the North. Such a bright infant Robb was, loud and always with a smile on his face, laughing every time he seized Minisa fingers. Meanwhile, her husband was appointed as Master of Coin, making so that in the next years he would be practically relocated to the Red Keep, leaving the ruling of Riverrun to her. Even Brynden took the role of Knight of the Gate to help Lysa transition to Lady of the Eyrie.

_He had to go, for the good of the children, he had to._

So she remained practically alone, Edmure too young to understand the full scope of what was going on around him, and only the return of her beloved for the funeral and her subsequent pregnancy helped her get out of that dark place.

Her eyes wandered again to the main courtyard as she commanded the steward to prepare the last details of the guest rooms. Aldora was sitting on Edmure knees, listening to something her big brother was telling and laughing maybe a bit too much for a girl of such noble birth.

_She's still so young, maybe I can let her experience the sweetness of childhood, she'll mature._

Her family grew so much from those days, it filled her heart with warmth. Although having Hoster here in Riverrun would be perfect, he was happy in the capital, serving the King and furthering his political ambitions, crafty businessman and peerless administrator that he is, returning to the Riverlands to visit once or twice a year. Even if he is getting pretty old. And Brynden is needed at the Bloody gate, it's his duty.

And maybe now, just maybe, she was happy too. The spring sun rose even higher bathing everything in a warm light. The remainder of the day was spent undertaking her many duties, and Edmure even came to offer help after he was done sparring with the Tullys' knights. And then evening came, making the beauty of the castle and its many decorations stand out, from the small bridges that intersect the internal channels to the small port near the Southern gate, home of the small Tully's river fleet.

The great hall was starting to fill, welcoming Lords, servants and smallfolk alike. Knowing her son, Minisa ordered the cooks the previous day to make filled trout, Edmure's favourite plate. His face when he saw it arriving on a silver platter as the first dish was priceless, with all of his friends at the highest table laughing jokingly at him, and she just hoped he wouldn't start drooling.

All of the seven courses of this little welcome-back feast were filled with light conversation, mostly covering news and gossip from the capital in these troubling times.

_It's always important to remain updated, wouldn't want to fall back too much from the Queen of Thorns._

Minisa knows that the Tyrell matriarch probably has a network of spies of all things, but she isn't at that level yet.

_And I don't think I will ever be, our house is rich, but not so rich we can permit ourselves a thing of that calibre._ _Not that Hoster wouldn't love it._

She tuned in the conversation on her right, where her son was talking with the Piper second son, something about a tourney and a Ser Thoros of Myr, her cutlery rested on the table near her finished plate.

"How were your sister and her family, Edmure?"

He turned towards her, leaning forward with a small grimace and furrowing his brows.

_I thought the art of gossip to be only for ladies, but it seems I was wrong._

"Well, she seemed happy, but she is as cold as ever to Lord Arryn, and little Robin is still as spoiled as ever, there was a rumour running that said that Lysa was still breastfeeding him, but I hope it wasn't true, I wouldn't want to be related to such people." The young man eyes squinted and his nose crinkled, _is that disgust?_ "Lord Arryn is always working, so I didn't see much of him, he mainly passes his days giving court and coordinating the small council."

_Well, nothing new then, even if an uneasy relationship between husband and wife is never a good thing. I just hope Lysa hasn't estranged even Edmure._

"And what about Lord Stark?"

Edmure finished his drink, a small bead of Arbor Gold dropping into his beard.

"He wasn't so good when we departed, Grand Maester Pycelle believed he could be in the first stages of the illness."

"Truly?" Minisa asked, worried.

"Yes," her son answered, noticing her reaction. "I thought you didn't like Lord Eddard," he stated, a clear question hidden in his river-touched eyes.

"I don't, but that doesn't mean I'm not worried for my grandson," and she was worried, if something happened to Lord Stark little Robb would remain an orphan, a terrible thing. She internally sighed. As if she hadn't enough problems right now.

"Well, Lord Eddard spoke very proudly of his children," Edmure immediately replied, probably sensing in the air the irritation Minisa always had for her northern goodson, "on the other hand, I think I haven't heard the King ever say a word of praise for Prince Joffrey. I haven't seen much of him but I think King Robert doesn't like him only because he isn't martially gifted, the boy didn't even come to watch a spar between Ser Jaime and Ser Barristan, and half the keep was there!"

He twirled the silver fork in his hand, a distant and wistful air about him, "I think the King doesn't like to spend time with the prince, or even seeing the prince now that I think about it."

In the distance, muffled by the banquet's noise, the bell tower announced with eight long ringings the hour of the firefly.

"And a few days before we left a lot of people fled the capital, like the Redwyne twins, and while Lord Belmore remained at court I think he sent his daughter back to Strongsong, maybe he believed his old castle in the vale is safer than the Red Keep, but still I heard he wanted to find a favourable match for her."

The chatter of the hall covered once again their conversation when the minstrels started to perform 'Jenny of Oldstones', with nearly every person in the low tables starting to sing. Truly, this joyous atmosphere was needed, with the plague that didn't seem to be stopping and the air of unrest in the most Southern kingdoms, and even if Dorne can't start a war given that Princess Rhaenys is a hostage, Minisa heard about small parties of Dornish that were braving the borders of the lower marches of the Reach and Stormlands. Certainly, if Prince Doran was asked about them he would blame bandits, but all of this reeked terribly of his brother Oberyn, the red viper wants vengeance. And war is the worst thing that could happen now. The Riverlands are always the first to burn considered their strategical location, and without natural obstacles to block the other confining kingdoms the people of the Trident are always fated to suffer. Not that she believed a major conflict would break out, at least not right now, but she learned to always be prepared for anything.

"Just before I left, news came of Renly Baratheon's death," Edmure meanwhile leaned towards her and whispered conspiratorially, and Minisa paled by such a startling revelation.

_Renly Baratheon is dead?_

She hadn't heard of anything of the sort until now, and it's worrying that she was ignorant of such an essential piece of news. Her son expression seemed to mirror this as if asking why she didn't know.

"I think the King was about to name Lord Stannis as Lord of Storm's End."

_As it should be, Stannis should have ruled the place before Renly, he is older, after all,_ Minisa thought but her mind was still worrying and speculating on why word didn't reach her hears, Hoster would have surely known, he is in the small council after all. Fear of the unknown, humans are always afraid of what they don't understand, and now the Lady of Riverrun is surrounded by doubts and questions. Questions without answers. Games and shadows, intrigues on a spider's web. What had started as a beautiful day ended with obscure anxiety hidden in her breaths, her heart beating fast, clear for everyone who cared to listen.

* * *

As the days passed, Lyarra would find that cursing the day the Lady Lake and Maester Luwin decided to give her a more active role in governing the castle was, at least, a bit soothing for her nerves.

_I will gain experience for when I will marry after all, that if I don't drop dead from fatigue first._

Her two elders were harsh taskmasters, she had to coordinate the servants and organize the meals, and it would even be a bit interesting if not for the massive dimension of Winterfell's household.

_And I sincerely doubt I will marry a Lord paramount, I would be lucky to govern a castle as large as Castle Cerwyn._

She also had to oversee the preparations for her father vault in the crypt, because it is tradition for the Lady of the house to do so, and if that wasn't by itself emotionally draining, her brother decided to exile himself in the solar for reasons only known to him, and not even a promise to spar with Asher Forrester, one of the most promising northern youngster, had been enough to distract him from whatever obscure matter captured his attention. The second son of Lord Gregor was only six-and-ten namedays old but was already considered one of the best the North could offer. It is an honour to be the one to ease the passage of her father in the Lands Beyond, and she read in-depth about the funeral rites of her people, still, what could possibly be so important to withhold Robb in his room for several days without helping her was an unknown. So she had to find an able stone sculptor, because old Thorren passed away only moons ago and she didn't trust his apprentice, his young grandson, to do a job worthy of Lord Eddard Stark.

Additionally, she had asked Robb for a quite high sum of golden stags to pay for the little pet project she decided to pursue, and now she finally was ready to begin. Certainly, he didn't listen to her when she asked for the financing, or at least that was Lyarra impression, her plan was carefully written in a two-moon program that she worked on for a week, with the help of Master Luwin furthermore, and Robb didn't even spare it a glance before sentencing 'approved'. It's a thing she discovered, she nurtured, and maybe it would be enough to distract her a bit. See, she was searching through the old records and ancient books when she noticed some very damaged plans for a new glass garden. And well, with a thorough analysis and some needed corrections from the steward, she realised that even if the schemes were very old they could still be implemented. The foundations were supposed to rise near the first keep, the hot springs' water passed right under that place if Lyarra was correct. The heat generated from the underground waters is one of the reasons Winterfell has always been able to sustain his vast gardens and grow large amounts of food even in the harshest of winters, and also why other castles would have way more setbacks in building glass gardens. That space was practically perfect, unused and protected from the wind on all sides.

Then why wasn't it already implemented? Well, Luwin said that during the Lordship of her great-great-grandfather, Lord Willam, a terrible famine ravaged the land, somewhen near the third Blackfyre rebellion, probably making those particular plans too costly. And if she had more time and money, restoring the Old Keep or the Broken Tower would be a far more beneficial endeavour. But she would start there.

_I am a Stark, and as a Stark I will help and guide our people._

Food penance was terrible in winter, and everyone knew how the elders would have to go hunting in the storms to give the young a chance at surviving. The last decades had been lucky, only short seasons graced the land, but that would end sooner or later. A shiver crawled down her back.

Sweet summer child old Nan calls her.

So the grey-eyed girl left behind the double gates of her home with Jory in tow as the first workshops started to open their counters. Wintertown is most populated during the neverending snows and strong winds, still, even now at the beginning of spring, lots of merchants and artisans occupies the market square trying to sell their numerous wares. Truly, from the beautiful textiles ranging all the colours of the rainbow to the smell of fresh-baked bread, Lyarra is enraptured every time as her first.

_Shall I buy one of the lemon cakes that Robb adores so much? Or maybe a carved bronze bracelet, his name day is only two moons afar after all._

She passed through the stalls, watching with barely hidden interest every displayed good. Silver from White Harbour, carved wood from Deepwood Motte, pelts from the Last Hearth, gold from the distant Westerlands and seeds and food from the Riverlands, everything your heart desired you could find here. And Lyarra knew that a market street in the great cities, like Lannisport or OldTown, was said to be immensely larger. And as she walked countless smiles blossomed in her direction.

"Lady Lyarra, please taste this gingerbrede, my son made it this morning with the tastiest honey of the Reach." The baker bowed in her direction with a large smile from behind his counter.

"Lady Lyarra, wouldn't you like to feel this new silks arrived directly from Gulltown?" The seamstress asked proudly lifting her head.

"Lady Lyarra..."

"Please milady..."

Jory huffed from behind her, dragging his feet like a bored five namedays old boy.

"If you didn't want to come I'm sure you could have assigned Harwin to escort me, Ser Jory."

"It's not that, I just don't like being stopped every two seconds by some gold-digger merchant," her guard lamented, "I cannot protect you very well in this crowd."

Lyarra rolled her eyes. "Calling this crowd might be a stretch," she muttered, "and I don't think someone will attack me here, so near my home," she said aloud this time to the benefit of the older man.

"You can never know, my lady," he answered while starting to glare at the poor silversmith clerk that was hopefully waving in their direction. "I just miss Lord Stark, with him the smallfolk was happy to watch awed from afar."

A pang of longing spiked the black-haired girl heart at the mention of her father. She stopped walking, nearly making the captain of the guard trip, and a small awkward moment of silence stretched between them.

"I'm sorry my lady, I should not have said that," Jory conceded, a guilty expression on his face.

"It's not that- it's..."

...

_What is it?_

"Nothing," Lyarra Stark continued, her gaze fixed absently somewhere in front of her, "let's keep going."

So they arrived at the woodcarvers and stonemasons' guildhall, a fairly big building with the common wooden roof seen mostly in the Northern parts of Westeros, while an old signboard depicting a hammer and a saw hanged over the heavy door. 

Jory opened the heavy door and entered, preceding her, and she heard a small and graceful bell announce their presence. A boy probably just a few years older than the summer-kissed girl, with clear first-men features was sitting at an old worktable, wielding some trinkets Lyarra could only imagine being useful for woodwork. Still, as he raised his eyes, he startled at the sight of the young Stark lady, only to straighten up soon after and awkwardly bow.

"M-milady," he spoke, nearly stuttering.

Lyarra tilted her head to the side in greeting, smiling, "good morning, good sir, may I speak with Master Wuther? I was told I could find him here," she sweetly asked but also firmly demanded, coating her tone in confidence like the Lady Lake taught her in her lessons.

"Yes, I'll c-call him immediately," the young man answered before bolting in the back through a small door.

_Am I so scary? There's no reason to react like that._ _And why is Jory laughing like an idiot?_

She tucked a strand of her raven-black hair over her hear, her eyes roaming all the displayed tools in the room. Just moments later, the clerk promptly returned followed by an old and massive white-bearded man dressed in dirty clothes at his side. He was impressive, Lyarra would bet her favourite gloves that this man certainly knew his craft, he certainly looked like someone who could lift giant slabs of stone with little effort.

"Milady," a gruff voice greeted her, and really what else was she expecting? "To what do we owe this pleasure?"

As Jory put the parchment scrolls on the table and Wuther started to read them, the Lady of Winterfell felt a little bit of anxiety sinking through her.

_I need to calm down, this is perfectly normal._

Still, it was her first act as a Stark, to better the North and her family lands, she could not handle it condescendingly. She took solace in the grey and black dress she was wearing, a gift from Lady Manderly, and tried to remember the joy and pride that she felt when Robb told her of her legitimisation.

_I am a Stark, no one can say otherwise._

"...milady?"

_Right, maybe I should listen, good work Lyarra._

With enormous embarrassment, she turned to the old stonemason who clearly just asked her something, and she doesn't know what. _How can I be such a moron?_

"That is acceptable," Jory answered in her place, and thank the gods she brought him.

"And about the payment?" the other man inquired.

Ah, this Lyarra obviously knows. "Ten golden stags now and ten at the end of the work, with house Stark paying for the first provision of raw materials."

It was a hefty sum, considering a farmer to earn six to ten gold coins per year, but not so high for work this difficult, the stones have to be very carefully arranged to allow the glass slabs to fit, and one small error can cause a disaster. Oh, right, she would also have to find a competent glassblower, that would be very expensive, the best ones were Myrish obviously but even Dorne and the Reach had some, not that the Lords they were currently serving would let them go so easily. Meanwhile, Wuther nodded, further studying the papers in front of him. Other questions were asked, but nothing of major concern and soon after Lyarra and Jory got out from the guildhall with a deal in their hand, a good deal, or at least she hoped.

And she was ecstatic.

After returning to the castle, the sky darkened, and as the day advanced a howling wind came from the East, strong and loud, wailing through granite crevices like a grieving chant. Lyarra got out the Godswood, her heart lighter after a brief prayer, a hand resting on her large velvet hat to prevent it from flying away.

Just behind the corner, two guards were speaking with a small boy, just at the entrance of the Old-keep's yard, near the strings were the servants usually hang the laundry and just under the old ugly gargoyle. She knows that ever-wild head of dirty-blonde hair and messy clothes, they're Cregan, one of the orphans Lord Eddard welcomed in Winterfell after the Greijoy Rebellion and also one of the boys that usually likes to play with her. What is happening, why is he here?

Both curiosity and a little bit of concern guided Lyarra towards the three lone figures. At the same time, little Cregan saw her and started to run, practically throwing himself in the Stark lady's pale arms. He was searching for her then. Big brown eyes stared hopefully up at her.

_He is half crying, what happened?_

The boy was still trying to wipe away his tears, and while Lyarra wanted to _immediately_ know what caused this, she still put a hand on the boy's head, ruffling his hair, in the hope of calming him down. You could tell from the first word the little boy said how much he was upset. The grey-eyed girl sent a frigid look to the two idiots that probably just made a child cry, but they honestly seemed just confused, and it is difficult to interact with a distressed six namedays old boy, so, for now, they gained the benefit of the doubt. But if she found that they mistreated an orphan she would send them back to whatever frozen hole they crawled out of.

_And I will enjoy every second of it._

"L-lya..." the kid practically hiccuped as Lyarra kept hugging him.

"Hey, Cregan, can you tell me what happened?" She asked quietly.

"W-we came here because... b-because we heard some whispers from the forest, a-and Susan wanted to go but I wanted to c-call someone and now I don't know where she is please and I..." At this point, small sobs made the rest even more confused, but she got the gist of the matter and she already knew what to do.

Straightening her back, she immediately ordered the two guards to fetch Jory and some horses -better to have someone actually competent with her if she had to go in the Wolfswood- meanwhile, she just had to wait here and comfort the crying kid. Still, a young girl, the daughter of the miller, if she didn't get it wrong, was lost in that giant forest, she just hoped the guards and the horses would be quick to come.

But... whispers? In the Wolfswood? What does it mean, should she keep asking questions? Could it be bandits? The mind of a child is indeed full of wonders, but she does think he believes what he is saying, even if to her it doesn't make much sense, but maybe she needs to understand a bit more. She doesn't want to upset him, but also she doesn't know enough. Every question she keeps asking though is met with the same answer.

But then Jory arrived, followed soon by five other guards on the best horses from the stables. On his right was her beautiful mare, Snowfall, a chestnut-coloured gifted to her from the Rills' stables on her fifth birthday, and the one she learned to ride on since she was younger. And if Lyarra's appearance reminded everyone of her wild and beautiful aunt Lyanna, her horsemanship certainly didn't, she wasn't a complete disaster, but as her uncle Benjen she is clumsy and uneasy on the back of a horse. Robb is far, far better.

Still, it wasn't the moment for doubts.

She is helped on the saddle while small Cregan is put in front of Jory, settled between the man arms and his warhorse's neck. They left Winterfell behind in a flash and set out for the Wolfswood, following the trembling boy's finger for directions. Only a five-minute ride West, that is how it takes to arrive under the mighty and imposing trees of the greatest forest in all the seven kingdoms. Now that the worry she felt subsided and she can actually see sense, the incoming mass of shadows in front of her makes her think that maybe she should've only sent Jory and the others and waited for them at least in Wintertown, this isn't befitting of a young Lady, heavens, this isn't befitting of a young _girl._

_I could trip on a root and hit my head, what a way to go that would be._

Still, she kept riding, closer and closer to the dark edge of the wood, and she wouldn't turn back. Even her horse seemed to tremble as the last sun rays were eaten by the countless leaves above them, and an eerie silence enveloped the riders. This isn't right, where are the owls' cries and the wolfs howls? A forest shouldn't be this...quiet. And suddenly a shiver crossed her whole body, as when you feel watched but can't understand how, there was something strange, she was sure of it. Her steel coloured eyes darted all around her, nervous. She nearly choked.

_What?_

Were this the whispers? The things small Cregan told her about earlier, cold and coiling serpents nearing her ears, and maybe calling them whispers was wrong but the small Lady of Winterfall didn't think she could find a word appropriate to describe them. But Jory and the other guards seemed fine, they were tense, true, but not tense enough. Weren't they hearing?

How was this possible?

_Calm down, the sleep of reason produces monsters, you're only imagining it, like a dream, all of this is pure suggestion, there's nothing wrong here._

Maybe if she told herself that another two or three times she could start to believe it.

Because, beyond all else, behind her, the little orphan was weeping, safe in Jory's arms, with his small hands covering his face. Riding in such a place was difficult, but Lyarra couldn't for the life of her take her eyes off the small boy, for under the pouring tears was the widest smile she had ever seen. It was sick, wrong, nearly evil, like the last words of a condemned man who didn't regret anything, a beautiful but also terrible contrast. Her sight became blurred, and the voices were now even louder, slowly the childish fingers opened, revealing eyes bright red from crying, but glittering with malice, and they stared at her, diving into her soul, and the mouth moved, sluggish, heavy, murmuring something.

She nearly panicked, her horse tensed under her sensing her fright, she flailed on the saddle for a moment but she managed to get back up, and only the awareness of the armed men around her, ready to give their life for her, kept the young girl from falling. Still, she felt pure and deep fear.

_What in the heavens?_

When her eyes fell once again on little Cregan, though, all seemed normal, as if she just imagined that.

_But I didn't._

A shout temporarily distracted her, one of the guards found a trail, small footsteps sinking deeper and deeper through the towering trees. There they went. The way forward kept getting smaller and stuffier, the atmosphere heavier, becoming practically a pathway where only a man at a time could safely advance. Now she wouldn't, she couldn't, turn to Jory's horse, she still felt the utterly _dirt_ sensation that moment left on her.

_It's not real..._

_Is it?_

Just keep moving forward.

After what seemed mere moments, they slowed down. Now she certainly understood the reason in ancient times this was called the 'Blackwood'.

_Inhale, exhale, don't panic._

There was not a single sliver of the sky to be seen above them, as if the duty of every branch of this damn forest was to block out the sun, and that made every noise a hundred time more disturbing, especially with the wind ghostly moving every branch within sight.

_I should have waited in Winterfell._

And they kept whispering, and the trees seemed to be _moving_ towards her of all things, and her blood rushed, practically singing and every way she turned they called to her and why did she came here she should have remained in Winterfell she should...

"My lady."

Lyarra whipped her head as Jory, now at her side, put a hand on her shoulder, concern marring his features, and her heart was practically bursting out of her chest. She was nearly wheezing.

"Are you well my lady? Should I send you back?" He asked while tensely studying their surroundings.

"Thank you, Ser Jory, but I will continue." She said while wiping her forehead from a few beads of sweat, sounding far more confident than she felt.

_What is happening to me?_

Her heart kept hammering in her chest like war-drums on a battlefield, her hands tightened around the leather reins so much they would probably leave a pretty bad mark. Maybe there wasn't a way to describe what was happening at that moment, but it was deep and lively and so, _so scary._

She looked up, trying once again to catch the reassuring and steady sight of the sky above her. Jory and the other guards weren't hearing them. How was this possible? _Why?_

These, -these voices- they were loud and _everywhere_ and Lyarra didn't even understand them.

_I'm not getting mad, calm down._

Easier to say than to do. The unsure steps of Snowfall certainly didn't help.

But as sudden as lightning in the night, they finally saw the lost girl in the middle of a small clearing, kneeling near a pine tree with her clothes covered in mud, and Lyarra could finally sigh in relief. She dismounted her horse and immediately ran to her, uncaring of the dirt that would probably cover all her attire, soon followed by the small boy who was just brought down from Jory horse and that immediately hugged his lost friend.

She heard one of the guards check on the apparently not too upset daughter of the miller, but something was strange, just like a muffled noise in the back of her head, something was calling to her, so _strong_ it felt like everything around her was going to just vanish. And it was a small puppy, white clearly visible under the filthiness that framed its fur, not bigger than a small dog, and it was growling to little Susan, probably trying to intimidate the young girl with its undeveloped fangs and small claws. Still, what a beauty it will be after growing. This... wolf? Was it a wolf? Its muzzle was far longer than normal and two small teeth were protruding from his upper jaw, while its tail laid motionless and its eyes were red like fresh-spilt blood on the snow.

 _It's a direwolf._ She realized with a small jolt of excitement.

All around them, the grey-eyed Lady only now noticed, was complete silence. No strange noises, no whispers in the dark.

_A direwolf?_

The thought felt foreign, it shouldn't be possible, it shouldn't be because no one saw a direwolf south of the Wall in the last two hundred years, and one so young couldn't just appear out of the blue two or three miles away from Winterfell. It shouldn't be, still, her eyes weren't lying. There was no doubt.

The trademark hoarse noise of a knife leaving a scabbard made both the girls' eyes leave the small creature, only to see Jory Cassel advancing toward them with the weapon surely clenched in his hand, ready to be used.

All of the day strangeness and worry came crushing onto her, making Lyarra shout.

"STOP!"

The man immediately stilled, watching her questioningly. "My lady, that's a Direwolf, we cannot leave him free." And it was a reasonable sentiment, but the young Stark lady won't let a newborn creature be killed, potential consequences be damned, much less the living embodiment of her house symbol.

_And they say the Gods don't send us omens, they guided me here._

A gift from the heavens, for the ancient deities of the trees and the rivers protect those who believe.

"It's a cub, and we will not harm him," she so declared with finality, sending him a heated glare.

Jory was clearly going to say something else when another voice interrupted him. "My lady, there is another one under that tree, and I think it's injured." The daughter of the miller said to Lyarra's left, pointing to a small birch not too far from them. The raven-haired instantly tried to make her way there, but the white small direwolf was suddenly in her path, trying to block the path to what was probably its sibling.

Should she step back? She doesn't want to scare her -and where did that come out anyway, why does Lyarra know that _that_ is a female?- and all of a sudden she finds herself watching preoccupied her surroundings, because where is the mother anyway?

_If a horse-sized direwolf comes and sees me approaching her babies I will return to Winterfell as scattered bloodstains adorning the guards' gambesons._

She had no intentions in listening to her voice of reason, though. So she stared at the two small red eyes, trying to convey that she was going to help, she wasn't a threat and had no intentions of harming them. Grey and red battled for a long moment, each lost in the other, and then the small beast yielded.

 _Thank you,_ she thought relieved.

Hence, she slowly advanced, trying not to make too sudden movements, and truly, another direwolf cub, this one greyer than storm clouds, was lying on the undergrowth, one of its rear leg clearly bleeding. Without hesitation and ignoring Jory very loud complains she picked them both up, cradling them in her arms. The white one licked her hand and she giggled, a smile finally pulling at her lips. _They're so cute._

Probably the guardsmen behind her were considering the possibility that she had gone mad, and maybe she was, because her mind was flowing with images of her bringing them back to Winterfell. It's one of the easiest decision of her short life, really, the grey one is hurt, and remaining here will be sure death. And a parent who abandons a child in the moment of need doesn't deserve to raise them anyway. Also, getting out of this place as fast as humanly possible can only be a good decision. Therefore, after a very explicit order, they all settled on the horses and got ready for the ride back to the Stark's ancestral fortress.

She carefully put the two new members of their party in the leather bag on the side of her horse, with the addition of fallen leaves to make them a bit more comfortable, and surprisingly they didn't even seem to care much. Going back was a relief, each step Snowfall took towards home made her a bit calmer. The two pups fell asleep on the way, time flew and soon they entered the west gates, the familiar ancient wolf statues welcoming them with their cold stone eyes. They were all safe. And if she didn't set foot in the Wolfswood for the entire next year who could blame her?

_Really, what happened there?_

The sister of the Warden arriving with two small direwolves, one even injured, should have certainly made a huge ruckus, so Lyarra was a bit astonished when she entered the castle only to find all the people converging to the new keep.

_Strange, but first I have to take care of this two._

She searched for the Maester, leaving the two cubs in his care -she hoped poor Luwin wouldn't lose a finger- and then she could go in her room and just rest, maybe avoiding to think about what happened _before_. But apparently it wasn't to be, because a guard found her with her brother wish to see her in the Great Hall. She entered from behind, through the family passage, and even if the huge tapestries on the walls were always impressive, even more the shouts and bickers all over the place threw her for a loop. Her brother was sitting on the Lord's chair, with a stony expression and looking far older than his nearly one-and-ten years. Their eyes met.

In front of him, an armoured young man with a chevron russet and gold motif on his breastplate was kneeling, right hand on the pommel of his sword, waiting probably for Robb to say something. The Lord of Winterfell nodded to a guard that went on to clap his spear repeatedly on the floor, quieting the Hall.

"Why," and Lyarra was amazed at how much her brother's voice resembled Lord Eddard's at that moment, pure ice, cold and dangerous "Would lady Dustin call the banners without permission or reason?"

"I think, my Lord," answered who Lyarra later found out was Ser Ronnel Stout, heir to the smaller noble House of Barrowtown, "That the lady Barbrey believes you not deserving of the title of the warden of the North, mostly because of your Riverland blood, and that she intends to come to Winterfell to... ah, _support_ and _guide you._ "

As soon as the knight ceased talking, the hall exploded once again. There was no doubt, this was treason, and they would need to immediately call the banners and send letters to...

...

She looked up, only to encounter Robb' sky-blue eyes.

There was something there, something wild.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that was it, every critic as always is welcome, and if you liked consider leaving a comment or a kudo, it would make me very happy. Thank you and stay safe!


	5. Gifts from the Gods: pt.2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a new chapter, I changed the direction of the story a little from the plans I had, so I had to rewrite some scenes, hope you'll like it. And 4400 hits! Just wow, I could not have imagined the incredible amount of support you'd give when I started this story, truly, thank you. Good read!

Soon after Robb offered hospitality to Ser Ronnel the hall started to empty, and Lyarra watched her brother stoically leave his seat for the small and positively ancient ironwood door behind the high table, alone, his fingers tightening around the small ceremonial sword clasped in his hands. Her feet almost moved on their own, immediately following him, all the worries she had earlier in the day fleeing to the back of her mind. She has always been good at hiding her more vulnerable emotions, when needed, just shoving deep down all her griefs and doubts and fears to easily concentrate on the matter at hand, showing to the world only the strong girl her father always told her she could be. And so she is doing now.

That said, this is... _disastrous_.

The Ryswells would readily follow Lady Barbrey, they're family after all, and so all the south-west part of the North would have arisen against her brother, and the worst thing was that it wasn't even so farfetched, because Lady Dustin had always been so obvious and blatant in her dissatisfaction with the Starks, and this was the perfect moment to act. With the south in turmoil and Lord Eddard recently passed.

_I should've realized, WE should've realized._

And worst of all, the Dreadfort's heir, Domeric Bolton, is half Ryswell, nephew to the treacherous Lady herself, even spending his younger years as a page in Barrowton. Fortunately, if she isn't wrong, and she usually isn't regarding matters of Noble Houses, the young man should now be in the Vale squiring for old Lord Redfort, and that was certainly convenient because Lord Roose is rumoured to be a cold and cautious man, and without his son to spur him it's probable he won't take the rebel's side without certainty of victory just in sake of the memory of his long-dead second wife. At least, the man father described to her and Robb would never take such a risk. Still, from the ancient times of the old Crimson Kings, house Bolton has always been second to house Stark, and while Lord Roose had been one of the major retainers of Lord Eddard during the rebellion, nothing, as of now, was binding him to Robb's new rule.

But failing would mean facing a fate similar to house Reyne and Tarbeck.

_Murdered to the last newborn infant._

Alas, eventual reinforcements from Riverrun or King's Landing would be slow to conscript and even slower to pass the neck, and all that their enemies need is to gain control over her brother, the New Warden.

_But my speculations are like leaves in the wind, we'll need someone with actual military experience, maybe Lord Cerwyn._

She closed the heavy door behind her, entering a small hallway, Robb's steps were still echoing ahead of her, and, lost every guise of composure, she ran, trying to catch up to him. As she turned the corner a hand roughly grasped her lace dress' collar, making her stumble and dragging her in a small alcove barely lightened by a small wavering candle.

"What are you doing?" Lyarra hissed.

"Apologies, sister, I had to speak with you," her brother calmly said, as if he hadn't just manhandled her.

The grey-eyed girl huffed, resuming her usual noble stance. She opened her mouth, words ready to spill, but something held her back. Maybe she expected Robb to be at least a bit disturbed -or overwhelmed maybe?- by this constant stream of unforeseen messes, trampled by events that could honestly put a strain even on the most resilient of men, but instead, deep in his river-blue eyes, she was seeing only pure determination.

_Ice._

Like a direwolf stubbornly hunting in the coldest of winters, legs sinking in the snows and wild winds lashing at their fur, never wavering. And the funny thing is that she should have known, there's no way Robb wouldn't have risen to the challenge, this was something he could fight back to, _they_ could fight back to _._

"This is bad, this is very bad," Lyarra stated all the same.

Her brother readily smiled, a carefree look on his face, "bad, really? Have you lost your edge, sister? I thought this kind of situation would've required at least a bit more eloquence," he absent-mindedly said, as if lost in his thoughts, "maybe challenging would have been a better term, and... oh, I wonder what it would be like to have a challenging life," he sighed. 

_Unbelievable._

She grasped his arm with her left hand, clenching maybe a bit too much seeing his expression, but it was certainly justified, how could he be so carefree in a similar situation?

Her voice wavered.

"Have you gone mad? This is the highest treason, you should be planning how to put Barbrey Dustin's head on the pikes over the gates instead of joking around like the lamest of jesters," she exclaimed with a nearly murderous expression.

He tilted his head, the corner of his mouth slowly descending in a frown. 

"Are you all right, Lya?" He inquired, his tone now sober.

"What?"

"Did something happen?" He pressured, a small hint of preoccupation coming through hist brave façade, and apparently he can read her like an open book.

Not that she is surprised.

For a small moment, she faltered. It was just... incredible, this sheer gall of his, to completely turn the conversation on her, and so effortlessly too.

_He would be a good politician._

Still, she had to tell him, and why not now?

"I... " she took a deep breath, " yes, I went to the Wolfswood, and I found two small direwolves," she finally spoke. And the look on Robb's face would've been hilarious if the situation wasn't so dire. They are now in the capable care of Maester Luwin, and she likes to think that her brother will feel a connection with the grey-furred one as strong as hers with her small Wolfwood's ghost. 

_Ghost, that would be a good name._

She distractedly brushed a small lock of her hair.

"At soon as I saw them I knew they were a sign from the Gods, to guide us in these troubling times, I am sure of it." And while the young Lord's current disbelief was certainly understandable, Lyarra too had thought it impossible until she saw it.

"Still," the sun-blessed girl continued, "now is not the time, there is much to discuss." She paused for a moment, opening the door, "let's go."

* * *

The evening sun slowly fell behind the horizon, the last waning sun rays of this demanding day filtering through the adorned windows of the solar. A beautiful lilac colour started to tinge the sky, herald of the Northern lights in all their godly splendour, while Lyarra, at his side, quickly penned letter upon letter, her neat and tidy handwriting practically flying on the parchment.

Shouldn't he feel anger, pure and bitter anger that these traitorous vassals of his _dared_ to rebel, or maybe even preoccupation, for all the horrible things that could result from this dire predicament?

He didn't, though. 

He felt lucky, because Lyarra always has his back. 

Well, he wasn't just sitting there doing nothing, though, thoughts upon thoughts of the upcoming conflict soared through his mind, and it was good, because this is what he excels at, heavens, this is what he _likes_. All the strategies he read on the old dusty books of the Master Tower were clearer than ever, all his knowledge about past wars and battles flashing in front of his eyes like a beautiful canvas of the most skilled painter.

Maybe he was born for this.

He turned to his sister.

"About Lord Karstark, write that he will have to call his troops, but only to leave them at Karhold, and come here at his first convenience." 

Lyarra watched him curiously, probably guessing his intentions for their distant cousin, "He won't be happy," she eventually said, her beautiful voice covering the feather's dull noise, "man like him crave battle as a child craves warmth in winter."

"You're right," he answered, "still, he would take too much time for him to lead all his troops here, we'll have to be fast."

Truly, just thinking about how to deal with all his bannermen was proving to be an exhaustive affair, it was like a spider's web, every decision like a touch that could make all of the threads resonate with unforeseen consequences. Their honour, their interests, every little thing matters. And if it was like this in the simpler North, Robb could only imagine the unbelievable mess that all the South affairs probably were. Still, the Starks rarely had been so included in the Iron Throne's affair as they're now, heavens, Robb could probably get away with calling King Robert _uncle_.

The bronze compass in his hand slowly spun again as he traced another line on the detailed map on the desk.

_Okay, this should be the maximum range the Dustin army can realistically cover while my troops gather here, any earlier and they wouldn't have enough strength to threaten our castles on the way._

They would probably avoid Thorren's square, the Tallharts' ancestral home has incredibly high walls and would not succumb if not to a lengthy siege, and that would be the worst-case scenario for whoever is in charge of the enemy army. So they would probably aim for Castle Cerwyn, hoping that Robb would come out and face them there in an open battle instead of remaining behind the high walls of Winterfell. It was a good plan, the young Stark Lord cannot possibly refuse a fight at this point, still, he had no intentions to play into his enemy hands.

"Don't you think it's just... ironic?" His sister's voice interrupted him from his musings, her gaze still fixed on the parchments on her desk, "you wrote a letter to the King, saying a temporary Warden would be comparable to an insult as you're a Stark and perfectly capable of guiding the North, and barely a moon later an uprising like no other in the last three-hundred years occurred." 

He couldn't help it, he laughed.

"Do not fear, I will prove my worth to our beloved sovereign by gifting him the head of the traitors," he immediately replied, trying to lighten the mood a bit, but silence stretched and a strained expression appeared on his Lyarra's face.

"Tell me you're not planning on joining the battle yourself, please."

Well, he would be lying if he said he wasn't expecting this particular conversation.

"I plan to guide my man in battle, I won't join the fray, but I will be there, sword in hand, as every Stark before me."

The young girl abruptly stood up, uncontrolled fire in her eyes, _fire, eh, how adapt_ , "they plan to take you and use you as a hostage to hold the North, and you want to offer yourself on a silver platter?" 

"Then what do you want me to do?" He equally stood up, matching her height, his arms crossed, granite-grey and sky-blue eyes clashing, "maybe I shall hide here, while my lands burn, entrusting myself to reinforcements while that cunt Barbrey Dustin laughs at my cowardice, do you think I have no pride?"

Maybe just now he had been a little too harsh, but Lyarra is one of the cleverest persons he knows, she can't let feelings cloud her judgement, especially in critically important matters like this one. 

"And what will that tell to my Lords? Will they follow a Warden who doesn't do absolutely anything when his honour and subjects are at stake?"

A moment of silence stretched between them.

...

Lyarra gulped, diverting her gaze, "Y-you're right," she sighed, covering her face with her hands, "I'm only preoccupied with what could happen, I don't want..." A small tear fell from her eyes, and Robb doesn't think he has ever heard her express so much vulnerability in her words alone, "J-just promise you'll come back."

So, he did.

Later, as the castle fell into pitch-black darkness, Maester Luwin took the last handful of letters and left the solar, heading to the rookery. The beaming grey-furred ball he had just been introduced to was resting at his feet, and Robb's eyes stubbornly kept closing and closing, searching for the sweet relief of sleep, but he still had one last thing to do before falling in the warm embrace of his bed.

As he got up, Grey wind, that was the name he gave his Direwolf, cutely lolled his head, staring at him with his pretty unsettling yellow eyes. 

_I already fed you, stop giving me that look._

Robb already felt incredible affection for the small pup, even more as he watched him trying to walk on his injured leg. Fortunately, Luwin said it will heal. So, he made his way to Lyarra, who was peacefully resting near the window, her eyelids lightly fluttering, bathed by the silver moonlight.

He offered her the small envelope that had been waiting on his desk for days.

"It's a missive that makes you my delegate to the Night's watch, after all this mess, of course" the young Stark Lord replied to her sister's intrigued gaze. Aemon Targaryen is there. The very old maester was the brother of King Aegon V the Unlikely, and the only member of the other part of her family she can meet. Without risking a major political scandal, that is. And King's Robert hatred for everything Targaryen is infamous, what he would do to his sister if he found out her true origins makes his stomach turn. 

Of course, after the end of this Dustin rebellion, he'll tell her.

 _You could tell her now,_ the traitorous voice in his head reminded him.

But he couldn't, because he was _scared,_ scared that something would change between them, and it's a stupid fear, he knows, but still looming over him like black clouds.

_She is my sister, and she will always be._

They grew up in Winterfell with a wonderful father, and Eddard Stark would _always_ be Lyarra's father, even if not her biological one. And after she'll know, nothing will actually have to change, right? She is still his legitimized bastard sister, and Robb will do everything to protect his sister. And he couldn't just go to her and tell her, such a revelation needs a particular moment, a perfect moment, so she would not get too upset.

Then there is the fact that she could've been born of rape, and that was actually a pretty big deal, but father, in the letter, said he wasn't sure. Maybe if Rhaegar Targaryen had won, Alysanne would have grown up a bastard in the Red Keep, or maybe even a princess, who knows? Still, _Alysanne -_ it tasted strange on his tongue, she had always been Lyarra- and he would have been half a world away. Well, empty questions, the dye was cast. But maybe the old Maester at the Wall could help soothe some of her doubts.

"Why would you need a delegate to the wall?"

_Because I want you to supervise the renovations of the old forts, because it will prove me a warden aware of all the North and its problems, because it will show our support to the Watch._

He could've said anyone of those things, they were all partially true after all. He didn't, though. His tongue felt heavy.

_You left me quite a burden, father._

Lyarra meanwhile seemed to search for something deep in his eyes, and apparently, she found it, "Well, you don't have to tell me now, if you don't want to, I trust you" she said confidently, her lips stretching in a blinding smile. 

"Lyanna Stark was your mother." 

_Well, guess the moment is now._

...

"Excuse me?" 

"Lyanna Stark, she was your mother, father left me a letter where he explained everything, and I'm sorry I haven't told you sooner."

The feeble candlelight highlighted Lyarra's shocked face. She stayed still, clearly lost in her head, and Robb didn't honestly know what to say next.

"Where is this letter?"

"I burned it."

She nodded, and she seemed hesitant, unsure, of the many reactions the burgundy-haired young Lord had assumed beforehand when he was planning how to tell her, this was one of those he believed less likely to happen. And one of the quieter too. But it should be said he would have never imagined such circumstances.

"I..." she spoke, only to close her mouth a moment after, "I h-have to go to the crypts."

* * *

Waves crashed on the high white cliffs, a familiar sound to the ears of the two Lords seated on the lovely terrace of High Tide, jewel of Driftmark.

As different as two men could be, the first could be mistaken for a Lannister judging by his shortly-trimmed golden locks and beautiful high cheeks, his sea-blue orbs the only thing differentiating him from a lion of the Westerlands, while the second had long and straight brown hair, showcasing two beautiful and painfully Valyrian violet eyes, a small goatee on his pointed chin. If their look didn't sell them as Lords of the Narrow sea, the revealing and colourful attires they wore would certainly help.

Amidst the lavish and gaudy decorations, in a far angle of the room, a chest rested, and inside, an old banner with a red dragon on black waited for the day he would once again fly proudly on the highest turret of the castle.

"I think the time has come to act." 

"I think you're mistaken, my friend, the times are sadly not yet ripe for our efforts."

The blonde man snorted, sipping a taste of wine from a carved silver chalice, "If not now, when? The capitol is nearly revolting and the plague is probably at its peak, Eddard Stark is dead, and a child is now the Lord of Winterfell, years will pass before a similar opportunity presents itself again."

"And years we'll have to wait, I fear, the queen is far too young."

"Every day we waste is a day our enemies can further strengthen themselves, Hoster Tully keeps diverting money to the Riverlands, the Vale and the North, and Tywin Lannister prides himself on rebuilding his fleet as the strongest in all of Westeros, and he certainly has the resources to do so, furthermore..."

"We are simply not ready," the brown-haired man interrupted, "Dorne would be first in our ranks, true, and the other loyalists would certainly take a stand, but the queen is still held hostage in the Red Keep, and we cannot win in an open war against at least five of the other Kingdoms, even if the Reach supports us from the very beginning, which would not happen as long as Lady Olenna is alive," he concluded.

"So you want to leave Rhaenys in that pit of traitors and murderers?"

Violet eyes shimmered in anger, "Don't ever dare, my heart aches for that poor child, but giving her a crown and then fail would be but a death sentence for all of us and our entire families. Is that what you want?" He tightened his grip on the chalice, his knuckles slowly whitening. "Even if you don't like it, waiting is our only possible outcome right now."

"To die for what you believe in is to live fully."

"Don't fear, you'll have your chance." 

The seething expression on the blue-eyed Lord's face was telling, his teeth grinding from frustration, "if queen Rhaenys marries Joffrey we're done, the faith already has blatantly displayed its support for house Baratheon, if we try to rescind the marriage after the _complete_ ceremony there's no way in the Seven Hells the High Septon would even consider giving us his support, and I don't need to tell you that a similar situation would mean complete and crushing defeat, a ruler without the blessing of the Seven Oils is bound to fail, no Lord would follow them."

"The only things I hear are empty words, if you have something to propose, do so, if not, stop wasting my time."

The blonde man stood up, watching down on his host, "We will speak further of this," he promised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, constructive criticism is appreciated, feel free to tell me if there's something that you don't like, I'll make my best to improve. thank you again!


	6. Council

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's the sixth chapter, once again, thanks to everyone that commented, boomarked or left kudos, you really made my day! I have conflicting feelings about this chapter, it didn't turn as good as I wanted, but it was honestly a new argument for me to explore, and I am not an expert, so... Well, tell me what you think, I thrive in constructive criticism!

_The first thing she felt was heat, pure heat hammering on her skin._ _Too much light was filtering through her closed eyelids, and as she opened her heavy eyes, Lyarra found herself lying on a hard wooden surface, lulled by, if her ears weren't betraying her, the small waves of a what was probably a river, judging by the distinct lack of salt smell. She trembled up, ignoring the redundant pounding in her head, and indeed, all around her, muddy waters the likes she had never seen hugged her from all directions, slowly and peacefully flowing._

_It was nothing short to majestic._

_The sun shined up in the sky, nearly at its zenith._ _And it was hot, too hot._

_At a moment's notice, the small fishing vessel -was it? A fishing vessel? Were those nets?- lurched, and the girl, unsteady still, went unceremonially flying, her face fastly approaching a probably very hard wooden beam. But apparently, it was not to be, no impact marred her beautiful lineaments, thanks the Gods, and when she looked up she found herself caught in two strong arms, charming brown eyes studying her face with undiluted interest._

_The owner of said strong arms was a boy maybe a few years older than her, with short-cropped brown hair and a sun-kissed skin so similar to hers, yet so different, and a crisscross of small scars was highlighted by his sleeveless garment, showing his very defined biceps._ _Oh, and also his shoulders._

_"Are you okay?" He asked, with a voice unfairly deep for one so young._

_And she was still in his arm, "I-I am, thank you," she managed to stutter, quickly leaving his grip, her cheeks reddened._

_Another boy -probably his brother, they were practically identical- was gazing at the ripples of the water on the harmonically rocking bow, a string firmly secured in his hands. And from the blissful look in his almond-coloured eyes and his lazy smirk, you could believe the river was his long-lost lover._ _Suddenly he got up, slowly stretched, tied the string to a piece of wood, and dived in, not sparing a glance to the other occupants of the boat._ _Lyarra just stared._

_"Lilai!" She found herself exclaiming._

_"He is only going to collect some shells, don't you worry," the other boy affirmed with a smirk._

_Lyarra turned, glancing at him._ _Who was this guy, anyway?_

_"Wouldn't want you to leave without at least a small gift, right?"_

_But his voice was less clear, there was too much light, and she started once again to feel dizzy._

_Wait._

She woke up.

* * *

When Robb was younger, only a small child, really, all stories about the rebellion were his absolute favourites, the battle of the Bells, the duel in the waters of the Trident, the battle of Summerhall, and every other his father used to tell him in bed at night before going to sleep. Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark, two men who brought ruin to a dynasty three hundred years old by the might of the sword. That's his dream, his drive, to surpass such men. 

_I will make you proud, father._

Days passed, and searing anticipation captured his heart.

Men gathered from all over Stark's lands, answering the call of their liege, from castle Cerwyn to Long Lake the word spread and the smallfolk took up arms, as was their duty. Old veterans came, with spears who already tasted blood and well-worn gambesons and chainmails, but also young men, full of dreams of glory and clean swords. Wintertown burst with new life, full in a way only a growing army could make, camp followers and smiths thrived on the abundance of work. But all that Robb was waiting for was the moment they would march. 

Was he too confident in his capabilities?

Were the kings of old laughing at his naivety down in the crypts, waiting for him to join them? Or would he prove worthy of the mantle of Warden, of Stark?

_..._

But at least, if he'd die, Lyarra would rule in his place.

"So, tomorrow?" she asked from her stool, her lips stretching in a small smile.

"Yes," he answered, glancing yet again at the folded missive in his hand. Tomorrow they would set out, the Young Stark Lord at the head of the column, despite his young age, clad in small chainmail in grey and white, a beautiful and finely carved piece crafted by the capable hands of Mikken.

"You'll be a perfect Lady of Winterfell while I'm gone," he added, far better than him, probably.

"I shall make our ancestors proud," the dark-skinned girl proudly replied, clearly lost in thought. She was holding some grey and black cloth, her eyes slowly cherishing its beautiful geometrical patterns. Her trousseau waited on a wooden frame, nearly finished. One of the oldest tradition in Westeros, even if one many noble houses abandoned, was for a bride to sew plenty of gifts adorned with the family motifs to give as a part of the dowry, it symbolised the desire of the bride to serve her new household. The rhombus and meanders she was watching now were probably their grandmother's. 

_Her namesake, Lyarra Stark._

Some parchments in her small workspace treasured little sketches of stylized red and black dragons, waiting to be bestowed life on the fabric, and while Robb didn't think it was necessarily a good idea to display so her newly-discovered origins, it wasn't his choice. Her husband would understand, she wouldn't live her life with a man who didn't know and love everything about her, after all. Or at least, that's what she told him, and Robb wouldn't even dream of meddling in such matters, even if he _has_ the authority, as the elder male of Lyarra's house. She deserves to find happiness, find someone to be happy with, but Robb would keep an eye on every guy his sister would even consider. And if they weren't the personification of perfection, maybe he would simply kill them.

_That sound like a plan._

Still, for now, he was just happy watching her work.

"How is Grey Wind?" she inquired while looking for a needle.

_Oh._

He will have to leave him behind, his little adorable ball of fur, and that hurts. He feels -it shouldn't be possible- the small wolf yearning to run in the open plains of the North, playing in the grass from dawn till dusk. He feels -again, it shouldn't be possible, maybe it's only in his mind?- his despair for his poor mangled leg.

When he realized that he named his direwolf who couldn't run after the wind itself, well, he felt... he felt that he would do anything to help him. Also, it was too late, he already answered to the name.

"Was sleeping in my bed, didn't want to wake him," Robb mumbled.

Lyarra giggled.

"Oh, and I heard something about a favour, care to explain?" his sister's grey eyes acquired a shade of mischief as she shamelessly grinned at him.

_Damn Alyn, shut your mouth._

"It's not a favour per se," he shrugged, eyes downcast, his ears practically burning, "only something Lady Wynafred sent to me for luck?" He half asked.

_Very convincing._

"Sounds like a favour to me."

"Well, maybe it would be if her grandfather didn't force her to sew it," and it was no secret that Lord Wyman Manderly's heart quivered at the thought of her granddaughter seating beside the Stark of Winterfell, well, like every other nobleman of the North with a sufficiently-eligible female relative, so it wasn't a great surprise. 

The young Stark lady raised a finely cured eyebrow, "why wouldn't she want to?"

"Well, shall I make a list? For one thing, she is two years older than me, and I'm only two and ten, I mean, she is _taller_ than me, and," he smiled, "because she said you were the prettiest thing she had ever seen, maybe?" he swooned with a playful grin, knowing by the blush on Lyarra's face that he won.

"It wasn't like that, idiot," she hissed, and if looks could kill, Robb would now be a smouldering pile of ash.

"Why wouldn't it be?" He inquired anyway.

"Because I asked her."

...

She has always been like that, she needs to know everything at all costs, just for the sake of knowing, but this... "I think that was like the worst thing you could do, sister," and it was a miracle that he wasn't bursting out laughing. For that, he had to dodge a flying wooden cup, fortunately empty. 

He laughed again.

This... this was his normalcy, his life, his family.

The next morning they marched.

Every time they camped for the night, his thighs would burn like fire and his hands would hopelessly bleed, cut by the rough leather reins of his white stallion, he was apparently not yet strong enough to endure a complete day of riding. That did not mean he would display but his fearless smile to his men.

And the food, Gods what he would give for a well-cooked goose or one of those heavenly pieces of lamb, the ones with grilled carrots as a side dish, and maybe he was a little spoiled, being a noble and all, but the food on the march was just so awful, and he even had a personal attendant for every culinary matter. He didn't want to imagine what kind of gruel they were giving to the foot soldier. He was getting used to it, though, slowly.

Dry hooves clatter resounded on the road as they advanced, day after day.

"Milord?" 

Robb turned towards Alyn, welcome to every possible distraction.

"The Gods bless our march," the guard gleefully claimed, his eyes pointed on an eagle soaring against the blue marches of the sky.

_Well, I sincerely hope._

And maybe it was true, at least for now the spring sun kept constant watch over them, for the last things an army need are mud and lashing rain.

So, they managed to make good time, south-west they went, following the towering edge of the Wolfswood, welcomed under the high walls of Thorren's square by Ser Helman Tallhart and his troops near a sennight later after their departure. Now they numbered thirty-nine hundred. 

Every man ready to fight and die at Robb's command, following him, their hope of victory, their warden, their general, undoubtedly the most important role of the entire battlefield. And one where he will have to make sacrifices.

_But I guess it doesn't matter, the only important thing is to win._

Every night, in that shadowy half-light unique of his homeland, Robb waited on his pretty uncomfortable camp bed, his icy eyes staring at the old and waving wool ceiling, failing to fall in the sweet arms of sleep at the hands of the loud debauchery of an army's evening.

His back hurts, and he misses home.

_But this is inevitable, I cannot let an army march on Winterfell, still, I will give my heart, I will return victorious._

They were his people, they served him so that he could guide them.

_And I will._

Damn Barbrey Dustin and her stupid uncle, Rodrick Ryswell, only baseless traitors that turned their traitorous back on every oath their families upheld for hundreds of years.

Traitors. And for what? For mere power, to right a wrong done by his uncle Brandon many years ago? His father always had a word of praise for Willam Dustin, and now the young Stark Lord would have to fight the late Lord's family. Even if the man fought and _died_ to find Lyarra.

_Fuck._

He rolled in his cot, softly huffing. 

_They broke their oaths, and so I march, it's not getting simpler than that._

But... Beren Dustin, Robb still remembers him, the blonde teen gifted him a dagger for his eighth nameday, ruffling his hair soon after, and now he will be on the other side of the battlefield.

_Fuck._

Still, there was a part of him who wanted to prove his enemies just how wrong they chose, what consequences their foolish actions would bring, their honour wouldn't be the only thing they'd lose when he was done.

_They believe me a half-Riverlander greenboy, unsuited for the seat of my forefathers, not worthy of my heritage, fine, we'll see if they're right._

And so, every night, only sounds of laughs and roaring bonfires guided him to an uneasy sleep.

And at dawn they woke, every day, to the persistent sound of war-trumpets, ready to march through cold plains, near rivers and ancient woods, passing old villages and abandoned farms, and Heart trees that cried red tears for them.

Further south, leaving the brightest star at his back.

They passed the Stony Barrows, one of the last strongholds in Stark's directly controlled land, when Ser Ronnel Stout kneeled in front of him.

"My father stands with Lady Barbrey," he spoke, his loud voice reverberating in the starry night, "but I am loyal to House Stark, and I would offer you my swords and spears, my shield and counsel, to fight with the Direwolf as my forefathers would want. That I vow."

An earth-shattering cry left countless throats, and the burgundy haired boy accepted the oath.

"And I vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth, and meat and mead at my table. And I pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you dishonour. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New."

And, yet again, south.

Tactics and strategy, that is what the young Stark Lord is good at, and he will prove it, in front of his enemy and with his bannermen eyes on him.

He can't permit himself to fail, many are waiting like hungry vultures to come and pick on his bones, he has to prove his strength now, he has to be gain respect, he is Eddard Stark's son, and they are now following him just for that, he needs to forge his own path. He won't have another chance. 

He cannot fail. 

Too much is at stake. 

Meanwhile, even now, Robb's plan further proceeded. Capable Lords are sworn to him, swords who proudly fought at his father side in the last wars, for justice, because the North remembers. He could not have asked for better men.

His heart pumped, the time of Wolves was coming.

He cannot fail. 

As grey clouds started to appear on the evening sky, a grey garbed messenger dismounted a horse, nodding to two guards in front of the entrance of a wooden palisade and entering a big and impressive tent, the headquarters of the Stark's host.

The man bowed.

"Milord, as of now there isn't any known trace of the stone plague nowhere in our ranks."

All the commanders rejoiced around the messy table at the news. Robb sat with a white fox-pelt clad around his shoulders, his loose hair nicely framing his face, watching the older men once again squabble about their many thoughts and opinions. A familiar moist smell invaded his nostrils. He inhaled. 

Weird, the sky seemed clear.

He twisted his signet ring. _A council_ _of_ _war_.

At his right stood Ser Helman Tallhart, probably the strongest man in the North after only the Greatjon, a capable and well-built knight that will have the duty of guiding the right-flank. Lord Medger Cerwyn is the oldest by far, an old and well-worn eyepatch covers the left eye he lost in his youth fighting for Robb's grandfather, Lord Rickard, and the Young Stark Lord assigned him the demanding command of the bulk of the infantry, in the centre.

_I should ask him to tell me the story later._

Lord Lake displayed his family valyrian steel knife at his belt, sheathed in an emblazoned and eye-catching bronze custody, he is in charge of the left-flank. Jory Cassel showed his usual carefree attitude while Asher Forrester, with the dark hair and dark eyes typical of the Wolfswood's house, stood farther than any of them, almost near the mouth of the tent, and Robb knows they will both be essential pawns in the coming battle, they're both formidable warriors after all. It's honestly impressive how bigger than him they are. And now he is ready to hear all of their advice. Well, actually, these talks of war were still missing a member, Ser Ronnel Stout is foraging in the nearby villages, sent away by Lord Cerwyn who still doesn't trust him, even if the Barrowtown knight made an oath.

Robb knew about how Ronnel had been in perpetual conflict with his father, the actual Lord of Goldgrass, so he is a bit more prone to trust him. He probably just wants to become Lord faster. Still, Lord Cerwyn's is a veteran of many wars, he cannot ignore his input, particularly for a decision this significant. In any case, someone needed to be in charge of the parties collecting supplies, because even a small army near supplies routes, like this one, consumed an incredible amount of rations. Their supply chain stretches as far as the eye can see.

_But now to the important things._

Their outriders, sent out days prior to scout the enemy position, returned this morning with the much-awaited details, making possible a further discussion on their plans. As was believed, the Dustin-Ryswell host counts four thousand and a half men, more than his, even if not by a decisive margin, and is confirmed to be commanded by Lord Rodrik Ryswell himself, his personal banner of a red rampaging stallion flying proudly at the centre of his formation. As of now, probably two days away, west. The Stark's cavalry, usually referred to as Wintermoor cavalry, is equally split on the two flanks and wears lighter armour than the Barrow knights, that fancies themselves after the knights of the South, preferring full plate than the usual northern half-plate over chainmail. So, at least in theory, Robb's knights would be faster and easier to manoeuvre, at least according to all the presents.

He could stall the Barrow knights, as long as they couldn't charge at full strength Robb's forces would arguably have the upper hand. Far more worrisome though were the mounted archers of the Rills' clans. It's said they can hit a moving target while galloping on horseback, and their prowess with a bow is known throughout the Seven Kingdoms, furthermore, they are much faster than melee cavalry, so countering them would be a difficult and deadly endeavour. But nothing is impossible.

Robb's attention was again stolen by the wooden marker that portrayed their position on their bigger map. There are no major castles around them, they left behind Thorren's square to the north, while way far east flowed the White Knife, south, following the Kingsroad, was the ancient fortress of Moat Cailin and the fever river, finally west, behind their foe's host, Barrowtown proudly stood behind his wooden walls. He lead his men right in the middle of nothing, and the enemy followed.

Doubt crept once again in the back of his mind, was his strategy right? Could he have done better choices?

As if Ser Helman Tallhart could hear the whispers in his head, he asked about it.

"To remain near the Old lake would have given us a defensive position, true, but now we can choose the battlefield, and we showed initiative." Robb tried to channel his 'Warden of the North' voice, trying to appear confident, and he nearly did manage, if not for his tremblings hands betraying the nervousness he felt.

"The young Lord is right, many hills rest around us, we could fortify one, we still have time," boomed the too-much loud voice of Lord Lake, a fist hitting the poor innocent desk.

Ser Helman hummed thoughtfully, his brows furrowed, "it is a good idea, the enemy force would have to attack us, they cannot permit themselves neither to wait nor to proceed past."

Both these outcomes would result in a loss for Lord Ryswell, he couldn't advance to Winterfell with an army at his back and waiting would only result in Glover and Flint's forces joining the Stark's army. A good tactic, a fairly sure victory.

But not what he needed. And Lord Tallhart probably knew it too.

It was just incredible how many times in the last days he heard the words: 'why not wait behind the walls of this particular castle?'

Granted, it was usually Alyn to say it, so...

And not only would that make him seem like a craven, but it would also mean he would have had to call the Bolton's banners to come, and he wouldn't trust Roose Bolton, after all, he is Barbrey's goodbrother. And that would prevent him to also call his other vassals, like Karstarks and Hornwood, leaving out only the Boltons would be perceived as an enormous slight.

There is only one way. With the enemy in front of him.

"We have to completely annihilate them," he emphasized. Silence fell around the young Lord, every eye now trained on him, "we can't have them return to the Barrowlands, even defeated, we cannot extend this conflict."

He paused.

"We have to destroy them, here and now."

"And how does my Lord propose to do that?"

The voice came from the far corner of the tent, where Asher Forrester was casually leaning on the wooden tent pole, his arms crossed.

Robb straightened, lifting his head and meeting his dark-brown eyes, as he pointed to a name on the map.

_Liath reihd._

"The grey plains," he translated from the Old Tongue. "We will lure them there, where they will, in all likelihood, attack us, our position will be favourable but not so much that the Dustin cavalry will refrain to charge."

_We will have the high ground, it's a huge boon, even if we will not have time to build many entrenchments._

_And keep going, they are listening to you._

"Then our infantry will have to hold while our cavalry enters the fray, we will begin with the wall formation, only to shift to the deep columns possibly just before first contact, then, we will stop them."

Robb searched for a more detailed map of the place for everyone to see, showing the intended hillside.

"The deep formation favours a cavalry charge," Medger Cerwyn slowly said.

"Yes, but we will need it to lure deep in the Barrow Knights and the enemy infantry," Robb answered playing nervously with the sheat of his dagger, still with a bit of pride in his tone.

He knew it by heart.

_Five men wide, twelve men deep, with two compact units as pivots near the flanks._

The blue-eyed boy remembers very well the first time he read about it -was it in a book about the Dance of Dragons? Something like that- and how that night his hands flew in the air as if trying to draw it on some invisible canvas, Lyarra patiently listening to him as she rested on her bed.

"But how are we to give the deciding blow?" Lord Lake inquired, and there was genuine befuddlement in his voice.

"This forest will be on our right," he slowly breathed, his commanders gazes immediately moving to the dotted ink marks of the parchments, "that's the final advantage of the battleground, one they will give no significance to, the enemy will be on us, engaged, so they will not be aware of a force six-hundred men strong commanded by my great-uncle, the Blackfish, both of Riverlanders and Valemen, that will advance from the South covered by the forest and hit their left flank."

Shocked silence permeated the meeting.

Now every card was on the table, and, if you asked Robb, everyone seemed pretty surprised.

Robb kept talking, "a messenger arrived two days ago, by now Lord Brynden should have left behind Moat Cailin."

This was his win condition, the final piece of the board, and the first one Robb thought about that evening in the solar, an evening that now seemed so far away. It was the first letter he wrote and the first he sent. It was sweet relief when a raven quickly came back from the Vale with an answer.

_The knights of the gates of the Moon are always ready, I will guide them North with haste, send ravens to Moat Cailin with further instructions._

Of course, he explored countless other plans as he waited for his great-uncle missive, while his army gathered at Winterfell, but when Luwin entered the room with a black-sealed letter, he could finally, finally move.

He waited, but everyone kept silent.

_I beg of you, say something_ , he desperately thought, nervously biting his lip. 

Would they resent him for receiving help from the southern part of his family?

He remained still, and his vibrant blue eyes searched for answers, moving from Lord Cerwyn to Ser Helman, the two most experienced warriors at his side, and, if he wasn't dead wrong, they didn't seem enraged, nor insulted, on the contrary, they now appeared to be watching him with something akin to impression and respect. They certainly weren't doing that before.

"You didn't tell anyone." It wasn't a question, but a statement, leaving Ser Helman lips.

Robb indulged in a little smile, "no."

"This could work," Jory Cassel said, ever supportive, "but we will need to coordinate with the Blackfish, the timing will have to be more than perfect."

The last remnant of wary tension that was caused by his prior revelation left the room, and everyone waited for him to keep talking.

_They accepted it, they accepted it! Yes._

"Of course," the young burgundy-haired Lord then spoke a little more confidently, "we will also need to inform at least the sergeants, we cannot have confusion in the ranks when the pincer attack will actually take place. We will also have to impress in their mind the manoeuvrings apt for the change of formations."

Carved in everyone mind like it was in Robb's, even if only theoretically.

"It can be done, my Lord, we still have a bit of time and our infantry is capable," Lord Lake confidently affirmed, "leave it to me."

The Master of Thorren's square interrupted once again. "But will the enemy fall for the trap? The lure isn't so large, they could suspect something."

And it was true.

And it was a risk.

"Lord Ryswell is a seasoned commander, but I hope he believes me only a green boy keen on defending his honour, and I believe he will see our choice of battlefield as only an attempt to catch a beneficial ground caused by our eagerness to fight." A risky gamble, but, worst come to worst, if the enemy didn't attack they could always return to the plan of the fortified hill. Even if it would further complicate things. And for the eventuality that his great-uncle troops would be spotted halfway the battle? Then if the enemy decided to fight all the same the Stark host would have the probable numeric advantage and one of the utmost commanders of Westeros on their side. 

_All shall be decided by the first moves of both the formations, if they engage us and we are able to withstand the first charge, then we likely won't lose._

"So," Asher Forrester intervened, dragging him back from his thoughts, "you gave the impression of forsaking every type of reinforcement, took only the troops directly under Winterfell and marched at top speed South, aiming to a quick engage to prevent an extended conflict, all of this only to gain proximity to an unaccounted allied host and chose a battlefield suitable to a surprise pincer? To completely destroy the enemy?"

Everyone was watching him.

"Moreover, they could believe you naive and coming this South to bring the fighting far from your land and people," the young Wolfswood warrior snorted, "well, talk about labyrinthic strategy."

Once again, silence encompassed the entire tent. Robb ears reddened.

He coughed, "well, we can further elaborate on each role in this evening meeting, tomorrow we march, and let me know if there is something else you require," Robb said waving a hand, "Ser Jory, Ser Asher, a word."

All the others bowed and got out the head-quarter, while the two waited in silence.

Now, this would be essential.

"Ser Asher," the red-haired boy addressed the young warrior, even if he wasn't technically a Ser, "I would give you a most important task."

Forrester studied him with glinting curious eyes, his hands hidden behind his back.

"And what will I gain from it?"

...

"Such insolence! How dare you talk to your Lord like that?!" Jory exploded, a murderous expression on his face, his hand quickly making for the pommel of his sword.

"Wait, wait," and Asher seemed genuinely sorry, as if he hadn't intended to make it come out like that, one hand scruffing his black hair while the other was raised in a clear sign of apology.

Robb was a little taken aback when the fifteen years old in front of him blushed, of all things.

"I meant to say that, well..." He stammered, looking anywhere but towards the other two people in the room, "I'm in love with Gwyn Whitehill," the teen finally admitted, abashed.

_What?_

Well, this Robb certainly didn't expect.

"And her father would probably kill himself rather than give her hand to me, so I was thinking that if I could make my Lord proud on the battlefield he would intercede with Lord Whitehill," Asher finished his ramble, clearly embarrassed, and waited, his brown eyes furiously glaring at the dirty tent floor.

It wasn't very common for a liege to interfere with marital matters, still, Robb would do it.

It seemed like a reasonable request.

Meanwhile, just in the corner of his river blue-eyes, he noticed how Jory seemed like to be just a step from cracking-up, and Robb just hoped that in the future he wouldn't become so irrational and awkward if a girl was involved.

* * *

"...and please, tell me of the Prince's Pass once again," she melancholy sighed, "how I wish I could come with you to visit Starfall and Sunspear, and I can't imagine how beautiful the water gardens must... A-Achoo!" A sudden sneeze left her lips.

"Are you all right, Rhae? Should I call the Maester?" Allyria asked, clearly concerned.

The Targaryen Princess waved her hand, "There's no need, I feel fine," she blinked, "that's strange though."

* * *

"It will be done," Robb decreed, "and regarding your task," he looked the five and ten namedays old in the eyes, "it will consist in guiding a hundred and a half men fast toward the enemy host, hindering their advance as much as possible, we will need as much time as possible."

_It will be a truly difficult task, you will have to use deceit and hit-and-run tactics and be in constant danger, constantly hunted by the enemy, but many praised you, Asher Forrester, let's see if it's well-deserved._

"You won't have to inflict decisive damage, only took their attention away."

He paused, a little bit of doubt resurfaced, "Try to hit the Rills mounted archers, even if it will cost more men," Robb finally said.

Then he turned to his captain of the guards.

"Meanwhile, Jory will take the best warriors he can find and go south-west to intercept and kill every Dustin outrider who could have even the slightest chance at noticing my great-uncle troops." Truly two grievous quests.

Both men kneeled, a resolute look on their faces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for reading, hope I kept you entertained, maybe this chapter was a bit slow, but from the next the pacing will return fast, I promise! Till next time!


	7. Bird in a cage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter! Tell me what you think! And again, thanks for everything, every kudos, comment or bookmark is just a blessing. The verse of the Seven-pointed-star is really from the book of Apocalypse, who I obviously don't own, XD, and it's referred to the first knight, pestilence. Another thing, I like Allyria but I wouldn't be opposed to other pairings, so, if you want to suggest something, just do! If I change obviously I'll edit the small interlude at the end of chapter six. Again, thanks, once again, and hop you'll like this new chapter!

The gentles waves of the Rhoyne graciously lulled the Shy Maid's deck, the small boat slowly descending downriver in this cloudless day of spring, so fresh and clear. The sun shined on the familiar riverbanks, and, only for the ones capable to see, small ripples in the water would announce the cherished presence of the Horned Turtles, so sacred for his people, peacefully swimming, and his eyes would play and try and find them.

Truly beautiful.

Having not stopped sailing since the Lhorhulu and the Sorrows, where the captain and his wife, Yandri and Ysilla, had decided to stop for supplies in a small fishing village, he boringly brushed his fingers on the small leather-covered booklet on his right, one of his most precious possession. He could try and kill time by reading, maybe? _Mmm, later._

The wood he was lying on was starting to get a little bit too hot to be completely comfortable.

So, the lonely Young Griff grudgingly sat, gazing once again at the mesmerizing drifting waters, his gangly legs swinging over the edge of the main cabin, or, as Haldon once called it, his officially assigned brooding spot, to remain perched on it like a grumpy owl. 

_Well, more like a grumpy dragon,_ his mind supplied, and he couldn't avoid a giggle.

Meanwhile, his bluish hair floated in the gentle breeze, and maybe it was time to dye it again, small silver strands were starting to shily peek from his roots, and with his dark-toned skin -blessed by summer, as the stories tell- and violet eyes, supposedly confirming his presumed Tyroshy identity, it could lead to dangerous conclusions. But at least, even if he had to hide his other true self, he was tall for his age, taller than many, and he always took pride in it. And then he sighed again, chewing distressedly on a random piece of wood. Bored and upset.

_Justly upset._

At least there was no one bothering him as of now. Haldon, the Half-maester, his personal teacher and healer, was probably in his room doing what he liked to do in his free time, -reading books? Experimenting on poor defenceless puppies? Who knows- while Ser Rolly Duckfield, his dutiful and devoted sworn sword, was... where was he? Ah, there, lying down on the deck, right behind that messy pile of ropes, very likely asleep, but at least he had the decency to avoid snoring. Someone was also probably preparing lunch, given the hour, Septa Lemore maybe? Certainly not his uncle.

And that's it, these are the only people in his life, shaping his small world on this old red-painted boat, the only people he ever really knew and the only he'll ever need to know until 'the time comes'. They're good to him, but there is a limit to how many times he can listen to Duck's embarrassing tales.

_I just want some friends, is it so wrong?_

Apparently yes, he is too important to be left unchecked, his uncle Griffin's voice, better known- well, knew- as Jon Connington, reminds him as an annoying whisper in his head. He is Aegon Targaryen, he knows, sixth of his name, King of Westeros, of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and protector of the realm. At three and ten namedays old, he studied history and trained at the sword, preparing for the fateful day he would have to take back the Iron Throne, his family legacy and duty. Still, he is also young Griff, the lanky blue-haired boy travelling up and down the Mother Rhoyne, the land of his ancestors, for all his life, with his uncle.

Two sides of the same coin. And it's as difficult as easy to live with his two faces, simplicity and power, lightheartedness and vengeance. And he does want vengeance, the mountain -the false knight- murdered his mother, an innocent and kind princess of the realm, and got bloody _rewarded_ for it, and Tywin Lannister, the man who gave the order trying to secure the throne for his legacy killing who he believed was Aegon, was now one of the utmost men of the realm.

That babe, truly, was just a commoner's infant bought from a desperate man of Pisswater Bend, one of the worst districts of the capital. A poor boy without sins, killed in Aegon's place. It makes him sick.

And according to Varys, the Master of whispers and the very man who personally smuggled him out of King's Landing, that nameless child death was necessary, the first sacrifice toward a better future, for the greater good. And Magister Illyrio concurred with his old friend, obviously.

_Money can buy anything, my boy._

His hands wilted, his nails nearly marking his palms with blood-crimson half-moons.

_When I become King acts like that shall not be forgiven, no father will sell a son for a bottle of Arbor's gold._

He shook his head, trying not to let his mind wander too much on such atrocities, but then he just remembered why he was so angry. Honestly, he felt a little guilt for being miserable over such a trivial matter, when people died for because of him, just because he was born Aegon Targaryen, but... he was miserable nonetheless. He bit his lip, remembering about little houses and small hay roofs of the small village.

The hospitality and sheer goodwill of the people there just amazed him.

When the young blue-haired boy was found by two twin boys about to go fishing, he simply couldn't refuse their prompt invitation. Lilai and Garin were their names, and Aegon couldn't for the life of him tell them apart. They both had coal-black hair and hard hands, callous and clearly accustomed to daily manual labour, and their boat, it certainly had seen far better days, could barely manage to hold the three of them. They did not tip over, thankfully. And then they taught him about how to knot fishing nets just right, how to read the winds and the currents and where to find the best and biggest and tastiest fish, all things that he didn't yet know, because his uncle Jon believed fishing to be an activity not nearly enough dignified for him, for a king. He lived all his life on the Mother Rhoyne, the greatest river in all the world, and he doesn't know how to fish, it would be even funny if it wasn't so sad. And depressing. Then they told him about their village and their oldest traditions, so Griff in return spun tales of his travels and the many places he saw, from the tall towers and rich mansions of Pentos to the wild isles of Dagger's lake, from the giant trees of the forests of Qohor to the thundering bells of Norvos.

Lilai and Garin listened to him with enraptured eyes, and he likes to think the amazed look in their almond gaze wasn't just for show. And when they arrived in a small hidden bay the two brothers managed to collect some of the pretty rainbow shells the Mother gifted to them, and with a small string, they made a little necklace and gave it to him, just because he was a guest, the same necklace he was wearing now, safely tucked under his tunic.

Probably one of the happiest moments of his life, he had nearly cried.

Then they returned to the small pier they left from as the sun was setting, giving his last greeting to the small village, with the brightest smile on Aegon's face.

At least until Jon, visibly angry, took the young Targaryen from the collar of his shirt and forcefully dragged him back to the Shy Maid, as if he was some unruly child.

_I didn't even get to thank them._

Another stone bounced on the water's surface.

So, now he was very annoyed, sitting on a stupid boat waiting for something to happen. Something stupid probably.

To no one's surprise, the next days were not so different, he kept training with the sword, as ever, he kept studying the faith, useless, and kept discussing history with Haldon, the one thing that at least was interesting. The Targaryen kings particularly fascinated him.

_My ancestors._

They did such good for the people of Westeros, they united all of the seven warring realms, bringing the continent from neverending wars and conflicts to years of peace and prosperity. Jahaerys the first, his namesake Aegon V, two men he would strive to be like. Of course, there were also less... enlightened kings, like Maegor the cruel or Aegon IV, _or your grandfather,_ a whispering voice slily suggested him, but he didn't like to think about them, least of all the one who brought ruin to his family.

And so, he found himself once again on the deck watching the waves break on the prow, where the two lucky-charm eyes were painted, just above water level, reminding of the times past of Rhoynar splendour. Not-so-heavy steps announced Haldon's presence behind him, but Aegon didn't turn, these days he just couldn't care to talk, particularly with someone who would surely try to mend the umpteenth rift between him and his uncle Jon.

"Still grumpy about that business of the two brothers?" Apparently, Haldon wasn't dejected by the young boy cold shoulder.

"Yes," he curtly replied, pouting.

"You know that Griffin did it just because he cares about you," the older man kept talking, moving to the wooden railing at his side.

_If he cared about me he wouldn't keep me chained to this boat. And why are you calling him Griffin, there isn't a spy hidden under our feet._

The blue-haired boy didn't say that though, he only nodded.

"He was your father best friend, he would do anything for you," the half-maester confidently affirmed, "And he already failed your family once, I don't think he's willing to fail them once again, you're a clever boy, I know you can at least understand this."

The violet-eyes boy knows that -oh, if he does- Jon Connington, indeed, swore to never take back his lordship at Griffin's Roost, his ancestral family home, until Aegon sat on the throne with Rhaenys at his side, spared from her terrible fate of usurper spawn's broodmare. His sister, who he doesn't remember, and that hurts. When he was little he always prayed at night for a little sibling to play with him, and finding out he had indeed a sister that was taken from him before he could even babble hurt more than anything.

_But I will take back what is mine, with fire and blood._ And his eyes shined with resolution.

Not that the two siblings would marry, incest is one of the principal reasons the Targaryen dynasty fell to ruin, after all. Also, Aegon needs a bride with swords and lands to offer.

"Well, what do you think if the next time we dock we go visit a market?" 

The hidden-king's head whipped toward Haldon, a surprised smile on the boy's face.

"Truly?"

"Truly, we shall take Duck as an escort and you can go charm every serving girl you want," the man joked.

"What's the next town, Selhorhys?" The blue-haired boy muttered, trying to recall the exact position they were right now, and truly, the next step should be the Jewel of the Selhoru, the same city they visited two years before, going upriver, home of the beautiful white walls and red roofs that enchanted Aegon, host of people from all over the world stopping to his famous inns before embarking on the way up the Mother Rhoyne, to Qohor and Norvos and the great forests in the North.

And Jon said that Volantis was even bigger. Still, the Shy Maid never reached as south as the First Daughter of Valyria, his uncle believed it too dangerous.

_Something about the risk that a member of the Golden Company could recognize him, given that they have a chapterhouse there._

"Yes," Haldon meanwhile confirmed, a knowing grin on his fairly young face.

And so Aegon VI dreams once again of being free from the enormous burden that is being a King.

The next days dragged with a tremendous slowness, but finally, _finally_ , they started to get closer to Selhorys, the familiar white walls appearing in the distance, like a blessed vision, and Aegon was so, so excited. There! Already the pattern and motifs adorning the walls were starting to shape up! There were the valyrian wars, and if he was remembering correctly, just over the Harbor gate, was painted the exodus of Nymeria and her ten thousand boats!

His ancestress on his mother's side.

The violet-eyed boy had to actually commit to not start bouncing on the spot. Meanwhile, his uncle was clearly trying to intimidate him, only he wasn't doing a very good job.

"Now listen to me," the man repeated once again, putting a hand on his nephew's shoulder, "be careful, follow Haldon and Duck at all times, never, _never_ lose sight of them, and if you want to buy something you can, but no swords or other weapons, nor anything that could attract wayward eyes, are we clear, young man?"

Aegon nodded, as a dutiful boy would do.

"If something unexpected happens, hide until you hear one of us coming to search for you, and don't _ever_ reveal your true name, even if you think you have no choice, even if you don't see any other way out, understood?"

_I know, I'm not an idiot._

Still, Jon trusted him, and he would lie saying it didn't make him at least a little bit warm, so the young King would try not to disappoint him.

Nonetheless, the Shy Maid didn't even touch the dock as Young Griff jumped directly on the stone pier, making an audible crack, as his eyes were already roaming intrigued to all the colourful goods busily coming and going from the several anchored boats, and who knew where did they came from? It was so exciting! And there! The harbour district vendors! And the heavenly smell of fresh fruit and grilled pike coming from their carts was... well, heavenly.

_How did they cook them? Is that sauce?_

Septa Lemore's recipes were certainly not that appealing, the honeyed river crab she liked to cook so much has always been considered particularly awful.

In a moment, he got close, eyeing the tempting delicacies. 

"You seem in need of a small refresh, oh gallant traveller," a brown-haired girl clad in a red sleeveless dress immediately enticed him.

The blue-haired boy lost himself in almond eyes, his lips going for lady's hand, as he was taught. She tasted of water and smoke.

"If your food was as sweet as you, oh beautiful daughter of the river, I fear my teeth would all fall out."

A moment passed, fortunately, she laughed, and so the delicious fish-stick found itself in his stomach only minutes later, at the expanse of his leather pouch. Hence, next stop, the market.

He walked under the gate, and it was all so colourful and lively. People with hair dyed green, red, even purple, people in modest tunics and people in elaborate silks. He kept running, thrilled, practically dancing through the crowd, amidst high-pitched voice and quarrelling on prices. At one point, he even slid under a camel's legs, scaring the poor beast and earning the owner's scandalized look, and as he left behind the shouts of the poor merchant he could already tell Haldon and Duck would not be happy.

_Well, not really, Duck will probably only laugh._

So, the young Targaryen kept moving throughout the streets, watching every single shop and stall, and it was all so... exciting. Another laugh escaped his lips.

...

_Is that a blacksmith?_

The clerk, who was just a few years older than him, probably, immediately smiled as the violet-eyed boy barreled into the counter with little if no grace, clearly astounded and enraptured by every displayed weapon. Adorned longswords, for the Westeros knights' style of combat, small falchions, more suitable for the street scuffles of the Free Cities, spears, elegant bows from the summer islands, halberds and glaives, simply put, everything a warrior could wish for. And they were all such beautifully crafted, the handle of one of the most expensive blades was downright filigreed in gold and silver!

But...

What was that?

Something, little by little, kept nagging, persistent, at the back of his mind.

Aegon's head turned, slowly, his violet eyes wandering all around him, searching, and after only a few moments finally focusing on a long and coiling alley just on his right.

_Why?_

He advanced, nearly in a trance, moving forward and forward until a towering red building started to peek, high amidst the uneven houses. But what stole his gaze was the huge crowd of people who intently listened to what a crimson-garbed bearded old man was confidently preaching from a raised wooden platform. Soldiers with beautifully ornate armour stood guard at the man's sides, the flames tattoed on their cheeks seemingly moving en par with the true fire that was dancing in the two massive bronze braziers at their side. It was honestly breathtaking. The atmosphere, the shifting shadows, it all seemed to lure people in like moths to a flame. He had never liked Red Priests, they're too... fanatical in their narrow-minded pursuit of their God, R'hllor, and the new High Priest, Benerro, is said to condone even the most extreme aspects of their doctrine, and for obvious reasons, everything to do with _burning_ does not sit well with Aegon. Also, Jon absolutely hates their religion. That said, words flowed from the preacher with unparalleled ease -he was clearly a very skilled and experienced orator- captivating everyone around him, men and women, young and old, and the young king can understand how so many of the common folk choose to follow the Red God. Guidance, forgiveness, purpose, all was said to be found in the flames.

He stopped for a moment, proudly lifting his head, then, he closed the distance.

_"_ And war will come, greater than ever," the voice boomed throughout the small square, and Aegon shuddered, "man against man, brother against brother, father against son. No land under the sun will be spared from steel and blood, no faith will avoid the judgement of the times to come!" 

The crowd grumbled, uneasy.

"Only R'hllor, the Heart of fire, He who commands flame and shadow, will lead his believers towards salvation and life, while the world withers and bleeds in the darkness, wallowing in false faiths and golden idols, because the night is dark and full of terrors!" 

_"The night is dark and full of terrors,"_ the faithful repeated as one.

"Too long have the Elephants ruined Volantis, the proud and beautiful first daughter of Valyria, reduced to a vulgar whore opening her legs for every slightly hefty purse, ruled by upstarted merchants, while the old blood hides in their high and ancient blacks walls, and their people suffer in silence," the priest kept talking, while all around the blue-haired boy whispers of agreement spun trough the people.

"Only R'hollr can save us from this trying times, join us, my friends, my siblings, join us in the pursuit of truth!"

A hand touched his shoulder, and Young Griff winced, turning his head. Haldon seemed worried, and Duck wasn't laughing.

"Let's go," the half-maester whispered.

* * *

Rhaenys waited, sitting at the edge of her bed.

Her room, the only place she could try to somewhat consider safe heaven, was painted a dawn sun's red, and she fought back a shiver as faint echoes of the city waking up filtered through the wide-open window, the yellow and red silk curtains elegantly dancing in the morning breeze. King's Landing is always hot, always damp, as if the Gods chose this unholy city as a circle of their Seven Hells, and in the worst days, there's no way out from the deep-bone aching and copious sweat, no repose from the utter nauseating smell of sewage and death. One of the verses of the Seven-Pointed Star came immediately to mind.

_I looked, and behold, a white horse, and he who set on it had a bow, and a crown was given to him, and he went out conquering and to conquer._

Her hands slowly met over her beating heart. This pestilence, this plague, it crawled in the streets and indiscriminately killed, while those who could do something, those with power, those that were supposed to protect, stayed holed and hiding in high castles. In this castle, in this tower. 

_Breathe in, breathe out._

And she shivered again, and maybe it was because the hour was incredibly early, when only the chanting birds and departing fishers, leading their boat down the Blackwater, could keep her company. Or maybe not for that. Ser Barristan would arrive any minute, to start his first shift of the day, and so Meryn Trant would go away, and she would finally be able to wind down. She couldn't help it, he scared her, every time those beady and greasy eyes touched her she just... shut down, victim of a crushing nervousness. 

And she was even more scared of pointing it out, because everything can be used to further torment her, and nothing would be considered too much for her Majesty, the queen. 

_Come on, only a few more minutes._

Waterdrop after waterdrop, her hourglass displayed the slow passing of time.

Eventually, armoured steps echoed behind her door, herald of her shining knight. Pure relief pervaded her. Well, no, maybe Jaime was her shining knight, or the two could share the title, there weren't many other candidates, after all. Allyria, of course, is her best friend, ever supportive. There is also Myrcella, she is always so kind to her that at times the caged princess had difficulties believing it, so different from her brother, and so Rhaenys likes to think that maybe, just maybe, the blonde girl considers her a friend.

Then the door opened.

No sighs of comfort escaped the young girl lips.

Because behind the old kingsguard, practically floating into the room, was, like a vision, the queen, clad in all her otherwordly beauty. Truly, the light of the west.

_Please no, not now, please._

Emerald-green eyes met brown ones, and the blonde woman's lips stretched in an excessively wide smile.

Her voice was too soft, sickly sweet. Just... wrong.

"Oh, little dove, what are you doing already awake? At such an early hour in the morning, no less."

The only thing Rhaenys could possibly do was lower her eyes.

Soft steps on the carpet approached her, as the queen sat on her bed.

"Leave us, Ser."

The Lord Commander seemed remorseful, but an order is an order, and no one cares more for duty than Ser Barristan Selmy. The closing click of the handle sounded a lot like a sentence.

And so she felt pale and spidery fingers, as cold as the purest gold, attentively caressing her falling silver hair, moving it to draw the first resemblance of a braid. 

She couldn't breathe. 

"You know," the blonde woman whispered, and it was always jarring how such a stunning voice could hide that familiar bitter malice, "I've always admired the unbelievable beauty of your family," and she kept combing, ever slow, "when, I was only a young girl, just like you are now, my sweet, I used to spend my days daydreaming about marrying your father," she sighed, "it was a silly dream, you know, a foolish fantasy every maid in the Kingdoms loved to lose herself in."

The Targaryen princess has learned to stay demure and submissive, because there's nothing else to do but wait in silence, and trying not to cry. Probably Ser Barristan is worrying about her right now, but she can be strong for him, right? So at least he will not feel guilty.

_Just try not to listen._

But it wasn't so easy.

"He was so charming," and meanwhile queen Cersei kept telling, "delightful, stunning, breathtaking," she stopped, as if lost in thought, "and even more, he was clever, more brilliant than most could believe, so different from all the usual brutish oafs I have to interact with." 

The previously soft tone became harsh, "Every. Single. Day," the green-eyed woman fiercely pointed out every word, her cold hands descended on Rhaenys shoulders.

"But let's return to the story, little dove," she said.

Only if Jaime suddenly appeared, only then the queen would probably leave her alone, her blonde knight always had a strange influence on his sister. 

_Just don't cry._

And Cersei kept talking, "when father, the mighty Tywin Lannister, fearsome for most and richest of all, when he told me I would be queen, I believed him, how could I not?"

The walls seemed to close all around her, the beautiful red arcs near the ceiling, the old paintings, the desk, the carved motifs, the hanging chandelier, as if all was trying to suffocate her. The almond-eyed princess tensed even more.

"All lies, little dove," red lips drew closer to the Targaryen princess ear, "men lie, it is their fundamental truth, they can't live without it," and she could only keep staring forward, trying to ignore her thundering heart, "so, you can stay awake all you want, staring at the door hoping it won't open, but men will always do what they want, regardless of oaths, regardless of anything, they take, and keep taking, and the only thing we can do is use the few weapons we are given to try and fool them."

A silent moment passed, and it was the queen, again, to break it.

"Empty words, empty titles, won't protect you, I thought you already learned that," the queen melancholy gazed met the morning sky, and she seemed sad, as if she actually cared. But she didn't, Rhaenys learned that well.

"The only way a woman can rule over a man is with her beauty," queen Cersei said, and didn't Rhaenys knew that, "but," she smirked, and it was a cruel smirk, "you're _ugly_ , are you not?" 

And once again, her majesty's hands familiarly traced the scars on the girl's cheek, and small tears piled up, as much as Rhaenys tried to stop them.

_Do not cry, you mustn't._

But it wasn't so easy, because even those most gracious and gentle to her had eyes only for her scars. Because even if Jaime and Barristan care for her, her scars are unbelievably eye-catching, marring her sun-blessed skin like ivory cuts. No one looks at her, really looks at her, without seeing a captive princess or an ugly girl, and that times, she just wants to forget, forget everything.

But how can she? 

Everything around her is a reminder of her fate, she is the daughter of a dying dynasty, and she is alive only to give the good prince Joffrey sons and daughter to succeed him, these are the words she learned before she could even write her own name. 

...

Wouldn't it be better to have died instead? 

Many times she asked herself that. Times like this, where all of this is just _too much_.

_Maybe it would._

And the queen's words are sharper than the sharpest sword.

"Did you know," _please, I know, stop it,_ and Rhaenys' lips trembled, her hands hidden behind her, "that when I first entered the Throne Room, the same Throne Room where my Jaime killed your mad grandfather, I was so, _so_ relieved to see you, the future queen, so unworthy, so utterly filthy, all covered in blood and with a gaping hole in your mouth, just where your pretty teeth should have been," her eyes cruelly tightened, "more beautiful? Don't make me laugh."

Finally, the blonde woman rose, and the young girl remained still, waiting. 

"Shall we sew some more, today? I hear that the lion you were stitching for Jeoffrey's nameday is lovelier than Highgarden cherry blossoms, little dove," the queen's voice had regained that sweet undertone, and the silver-haired princess could only nod.

She has to respond.

_Speak._

"I-I won't be late, your majesty."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for reading, and remember I adore constructive criticism!


	8. Interlude: Riverrun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little interlude with Aldora, and a little recap of characters that will be important in the next few chapters. Hope you'll like it, I also left a little art of Aldora that I made, just to make everyone understand how I imagine her, because I suck at describing XD. But also I made a Robb one that is now in chapter 6 and a Lyarra one in chapter 3, if you want to see them!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter, and I changed Robb's pairing, I just couldn't write Allyria, sorry if it's off putting, I would understand if you didn't want to read anymore, even if it would make me very sad :( But now it's Robb/Rhaenys and it's final! And I changed the end of chapter 6, the first little Rhaenys appearence.  
> As always, a big thank you to evryone that read, kudos, commented and bookmarked!

From ' **_The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms, With Descriptions of Many High Lords and Noble Ladies and Their Children'_ **by Grand Maester Mallon.

Up to date at the end of the year 295 AC.

Rhaenys Targaryen

Born: 281 AC (fourteen-years-old)

Sun-kissed skin of the Valyrians, silver hair, high cheekbones and almond eyes, her face marred by knife scars.

X

Robb Stark

Born: 283 AC (twelve-years-old)

Proclaimed Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North in the year of the Gods 295.

Burgundy hair and blue eyes, with the customary complexion of the first men.

X

Edmure Tully 

Born: 276 AC (Nineteen-years-old)

Red hair and light blue eyes, with the customary lineaments of the Vale-Riverlands Andal ancestry.

Aldora Tully 

Born: 284 AC (eleven-years-old)

Light-red hair and light blue eyes, with the customary lineaments of the Vale-Riverlands Andal ancestry.

X

Margaery Tyrell

Born: 283 AC (twelve-years-old)

Brown curly hair and warm brown eyes, with the customary lineaments of the Southern Andal ancestry.

Loras Tyrell

Born: 282 AC (thirteen-years-old)

Brown curly hair and chestnut eyes, with the customary lineaments of the Southern Andal ancestry.

X

Robyn Arryn

Born: 285 AC (ten-years-old)

Brown hair and blue eyes, with the customary lineaments of the Vale-Riverlands Andal ancestry.

X

Jeoffrey Baratheon

Born: 284 AC (eleven-years-old)

Golden hair and green eyes, with the customary lineaments of the Western Andals.

Myrcella Baratheon

Born: 286 AC (nine-years-old)

Golden hair and green eyes, with the customary lineaments of the Western Andals.

Tommen Baratheon

Born: 290 AC (five-years-old)

Golden hair and green eyes, with the customary lineaments of the Western Andals.

Shireen Baratheon

Born: 290 AC (four-years-old)

Black hair and deep blue eyes, with the customary lineaments of the Southern Andals, and the left cheek marred by Greyscale scars.

* * *

Aldi's outstretched hands received another firm slap, and she couldn't help but whine a little. Still, her mother's strict eyes never wavered.

"If you would commit yourself to the fullest, maybe we wouldn't be here now," the ever-stern voice of Minisa Tully filled Riverrun's study.

It is an honour, to be considered worthy of learning from the Lady of Riverrun herself, to be in the same position as her sisters and her brother before her. And oh, was Edmure right when he said that she would regret this privilege. Because they had been here for at least a couple of hours, and the youngest Tully daughter certainly likes to learn, to play mind games and analyze even the most outlandish situations, but a teacher so harsh would annoy even the most diligent of students.

Still, this is her everyday duty, and she shall not shy from it.

But how Aldi just wanted to go in her chambers, sink her head in her feather pillow and just... rest.

The three scrolls in front of her wouldn't work out themselves, though.

She sighed, folding her hands under the table.

Three trade arrangements, one with with the North, one with the Vale and one with the Westerlands, and hidden between the far too long stipulations an intentional error waited to be brought to light. Bags of seeds to Winterfell, silver from -who would've guessed?- SilverHill and ale from the Eyrie.

Usually, it would be a fairly easy play to find whatever number her mother tweaked, but now the letters were starting to cross and blur in a way that made her light-blue eyes hurt.

"Can I bring this to my room and give the solution on the morrow?" Aldi finally spoke.

A moment passed, as her mother seemed intent to study her, perfectly composed on her beautiful chair, with the red and blue leaping trouts of the enamelled glass window graciously shining behind her, and she finally gave her permission. The young girl was on her bed before even blinking.

In a little, dinner would be ready, heralded by the sept's seven bells, but for now, the youngest trout was left alone with her thoughts, and these particular days it wasn't very _pleasant_.

_Indeed._

And the object of her frustration remained there, as if it was taunting her, just in the centre of her bedside table, on her left. Her hands tightened around the red sheets, and Aldi had to remind herself that bawling in frustration wouldn't serve any actual purpose other than bothering the poor servants. Even Edmure had hinted at her blatantly noticeable bad mood, Edmure, whom she deems one of the densest people to ever walk this Earth. She had to give up on him, sadly, he is far too oblivious, never noticing the incredible affection that the young Lady Blackwood has for him -only the Gods know what she sees in him- and Bethany would be a perfect future Lady of Riverrun, and a perfect sister, but alas, Lady Minisa wants her heir to mature a little more before marriage. Of course, her red-haired youngest daughter isn't on the same page.

The dress she didn't bother to take off wrinkled as she turned over in the bed. 

The blamed letter found its way in her small hands, once again.

There are a lot of niceties, very formal niceties, just after her father's numerous titles, where he asks her all that is expected in a highborn Lord's missive to a daughter, and only in the next page she starts to recognize the hand of Lord Hoster. Robb is going to war, the King is desperate after the death of his little brother Renly, and the chair of Maester of Laws is now open. But only the last sentence holds the true purpose of this whole letter, as clear as spring's water. 

_I am told that the prince misses your company._

The few times she met Jeoffrey Baratheon, they spoke two sentences of greeting, barely. And so, she could imagine the austere figure of her father, still impressive even at his age, standing in front of her to tell exactly what she has to do, and even his severe voice seems far too real.

_You will marry Joffrey, you will be queen._

And Aldi knows that it will be her parents' duty to decide everything in her future, above all her marriage, and there would be worst things than being queen, still, it is the fact that she can't choose that is choking her.

Lord Hoster hunger for power knows no bounds, after all.


	9. Ready or not

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here I am , back again, sorry for the long wait, and thanks to all of those that subscribed, kudosed, left a comment or a bookmark in the meantime, it means so much to me! I was on vacation, but I also had real struggle writing this chapter, because it covers one part of the battle, and I never wrote one, and it didn't came out as good as I wanted. That said, I hope you'll like it, and as always, I love constructive criticisms, tell me what you think!

It took them three days of further marching to finally reach the Grey Plains.

At times, Robb forgot how impressively the Gods shaped this land, _his land,_ but now, on this hill, the way the horizon opened before him, azure and green and white, was astoundingly breathtaking. And begrudgingly waiting, gazing at the army under him, and just... pure resolve and radiant fire are filling his blood, so strong he can't even try and stay still.

_This is it, this is my fate._

Riding his impressive warhorse, Lord Tallhart drew closer to him, already donning his plated armour. Truly, an imposing sight for an equally imposing man, and the young Stark Lord had to admit that despite the remarkably large presence and experience, the man's voice was oddly reassuring.

"We are ready, my Lord."

"Good," the sapphire-eyed boy stoically replied, "what from my great-uncle?" 

"Some Redfort lad just arrived, said he left the Blackfish's host just two days ago, and that they were fast enough."

Robb's small fists tightened, a giddy smirk gracing his lips. 

_Perfect._

Here, under the heavens, he would prove his worth to men and Gods.

* * *

Lyarra absent-mindedly nodded to the guard, who then proceeded to escort her from the solar to the busy Great Hall, and as it was still early morning, in a day where she wasn't supposed to give court, this 'situation that required her presence', even if distracting, would at least be presumably interesting.

That is her hope, at least.

And in truth, distractions she desperately needed. According to the ever-reliable counsel of Maester Luwin, Robb would most likely be engaged in battle somewhen in the current days, and just the thought of something happening to him is plenty to make her want to tear out her own raven-hair in undiluted frustration. Her brother can't die, he can't, he promised, and nothing has more meaning for a Stark than a promise. Slowly, they carried on, down of the last staircase, followed by the echo of her wooden heels against the familiar high-stone ceilings, to then enter the Hall, as solemn and dignified as her forefathers. Once again, all her preoccupations locked deep in her mind, sealed and hidden in an iron casing.

And right before the Throne of Winter, respectfully kneeling between two of the long tables the servants were dedicated setting for the next meal, were a boy and a girl, in appearance younger than the granite-eyed Lady Stark, if her eyes weren't determined in deceiving her, at least. 

_Nine namedays old, maybe?_

She sat, and as every head turned to her, a respectful silence pervaded the hall. 

"The Lady of Winterfell, Lady Lyarra Stark, in Lieu of her brother, the Lord Robb," proclaimed the herald.

The two children looked scared, the male's eyes kept tensely darting left and right, hands fidgeting and visibly sweaty, whilst the girl just strangely stared at her. Clearly siblings, with the same messy coal-black hair, short and long, deep blue eyes and hard-chiselled features, and a similar bulky build. Even if the girl was likely taller. Although, there were differences between them, subtle and covert differences, to the point she would not be able to spell them out if asked. And are they noble? They may be, if the guards saw fit to let them past the gates, or in some way involved with pressing issues, anyway. But alas, their clothes were far too dusty and plain, and their... well, their frankly hopeless efforts of disguising small stares to the high glass windows and the carved tables all around them, curious and yet wary, is just the same look the orphans of Wintertown have when they're in the castle.

She surely knows it. 

_So, arguably, not of noble birth._

Thus, Lyarra's voice echoed in the hall, a little softer than usual, maybe, or at least she tried to make it that way.

"What business brings you and your companion to Winterfell, my lady?" she addressed the seemingly calmer girl.

At her left, Maester Luwin's eyes were fixed intently, decisively, almost excessively, on the newcomers.

"I-I'm not a Lady, Milady..." she stuttered, "my name's Elaine, and this is my b-brother Gendry," and Elaine's shaking hands brought out a letter from a small satchel," we are from King's Landing, and we were told to come N-North by Lord Eddard," the usual spike of pain and longing speared the sun-kissed Lady at her father mention, "he gave us this letter, t-told us to give it to Lord Robb, and that it would explain everything. W-we are very thankful for you to hear us so." 

_Father told them to come North?_

Even without an explicit order, a guard was already moving to get the missive, immediately offering it to the grey-eyed Lady, and Lyarra felt her hands tremble a little as she broke the direwolf seal. At the bottom of the parchment rested the Lord's signet ring stamp, identical to the one on Robb's finger, undoubtedly confirming the writing hand to be Lord Eddard's.

So she started reading.

_My son, I hope you'll welcome Elaine and Gendry, they're wonderful and capable youths, skilled in wood-carving and smithy, respectively, and Winterfell always has a need for able hands. They will make wonderful apprentices, that I know for sure._

_My heart longs for home, I have so many things to tell both to you and your sister._

_Lord Eddard Stark_

_Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North_

_What?_

That was it? Three sentences?

...

The back of the scroll was also frustratingly barren.

She tucked a lock of black hair under her ear, quietly huffing. 

"Prepare our guests a bedroom, hard workers will always find a warm hearth in Winterfell," she ordered in Vayon's Poole direction, but as the man bowed, and the two children in front of her thanked her generosity, she couldn't divert her deep grey eyes from the familiar ink strokes resting in her hands.

_My heart longs for home, I have so many things to tell both to you and your sister._

They are just too young, she and Robb, aren't they?

_Many things? What many things?_

Her heart overtook by a wave of helplessness, the young Stark Lady found herself nearly drowning in despair, but just for a small moment. 

How can a two and ten namedays old girl rule Winterfell? Heavens, how can a two and ten namedays old boy fight a Rebellion?

_Stop, you mustn't doubt Robb, he will return victorious._

But traitorous whispers kept crawling in her ears, chuckling and taunting of every cruel fate that would await them under sentence of defeat. She is a girl, and while she is now the Mistress of a castle, one of the utmost castles in Westeros at that, in the end, all she can do is wait for the few people she cares about as they valiantly fight. Truly a cruel fate, but that of nearly every woman. After that, she left the Great Hall, passing the direwolves statues, heading again towards the solar. There isn't need to lose oneself in futile thoughts and endless tangents, right? All she can do she is doing, at the finest of her capacities, and that will have to suffice.

_Then why I feel so useless?_

Even if her new duties are many, and so complicated, she is giving her utmost best. And that is also a good way to keep her mind far, _far_ away from other matters, well, actually, only from a single matter, but one that alone makes her emotions go haywire. Because Eddard Stark has always been her father, he was there when Lyarra took her first little steps, when she bubbled her first words and when she embroidered her first deformed direwolf. Always with Ice at his back, protecting her from everyone, because she needed that protection, she was a bastard -was considered one, at least- and yet she was not treated as such, because he loved her so much to sacrifice standing and go against social stigma to protect her. 

As every true loving father should do.

But then why, at times, Lyarra feels small bursts of madness shaking true her? Pure lust for blood, for _fire_?

Every small hardship, every stupid quarrel with Robb, every single misty-eyed weep she made in the loneliness of the midnight moon, her father was always there to console her after, strong as a mountain, ready to take her hand and get her back up, even with the stupidest matters a seven namedays old Lyarra could came up with, Lord Eddard treated them as matters of kingdoms. Maybe always one little step back more than he did with Robb, and the black-haired girl at times was curious about the reasons for that. 

_Did he wish I was born a boy?_ It was a question she asked herself many times.

But it didn't make sense, his father wasn't like that, and she knew his favourite sibling was a girl.

Now she knows why, though, because she is not his birth daughter, oh, how she wishes it could've been the stupid motivation.

_Why? why, Gods?_

He took her, protected her from the likes of Tywin Lannister, the mountain and Amory Lorch, and maybe even Robert Baratheon, his best friend, and raised her without hesitation. 

_No, I am his daughter,_ the same thing she keeps telling herself, once again, once more, as small tears start to damp the corner of her eyes.

_I have been from the moment he gave me my true name, Rhaegar Targaryen would've called me Alysanne._

At least Robb said so, and while she always loved and admired the Good Queen, that name now makes her shiver.

And who knows what would've happened if her father decided to disclose her actual name to the court. She doesn't want to think about it. Rhaegar Targaryen is nothing.

But then why, as night gathers, her grey eyes in the silver mirror fade in purple? _WHY?_

Her knuckles whitened, little half-moons marking her palms. Lyanna Stark... she was Lyarra's mother. She had grown up with her stories, a wild girl taken by the Gods far too soon, a free spirit riding through forests like the most seasoned hunter, but chained in her role as firstborn and only daughter of the great Lord Rickard Stark.

She'll never know her, her mother.

All because of that FUCKING CUNT. How can a single person be so stupid? 

She had to stop for a moment, just to calm her breathing. Rhaegar isn't her father. He is nothing.

_Only a stupid and spoiled prince._

When she first confronted these truths, just after Robb told her of the letter, she rushed to the dark and whispering crypts, and as she prayed between his father's empty grave and his mother's old one -and it's really weird to say it like this- Lyarra realized she has a sister. It hadn't been easy, an atypical situation, certainly, and one so emotional it still hurts even remembering. But she has a sister.

The Stark Lady smiled as she started to enter the family tower, then suddenly stopped. 

_I want to go to the crypts._

She changed course, as her mind dolefully wandered. 

Rhaenys Targaryen, they'll never know each other, probably, and as the steel-eyed girl hates the silver prince, her half-sister probably hates Lady Lyanna Stark, for all the misfortune that started that day at Harrenhall. But family is the most important thing, and her newfound sibling is not Rhaegar, she's just caged in King's Landing for the past faults of her family, a gold-threaded hostage, amid hungry courtiers and her family's killers. Lyarra doesn't know what to think, and once again, there's nothing she can do.

The courtyard's pebbled paths welcomed her, and she weaved trough the servants going on with their days towards the old keep. The stone-embedded door rustier than ever.

And so the sun-kissed girl went down, and down, and down through the dark, a small candle in her hands her only tremulous guide.

She arrived at her mother's statue, a beautiful stone crowned with stone roses.

She can't wait for Robb to come back.

_Wait, what's that?_

* * *

The sight of all the banners lined up in front of him was effortlessly glorious. The Ryswell and Dustin's ranks were spreading on the other side of the plain, and, atop his horse, Robb could gaze in the distance the enemy headquarter rising behind their troops, particularly behind the central infantry battalion, a very traditional strategy.

And one that the red-haired boy also employed. The main Stark banner is on his immediate right, proudly reaching for the sky, and all around him a half-ring of cavalry -his personal escort- protects him and the headquarter, elevated on this small hill. Lord Medger and his troops are functionally in front of him, only the poorly fortified and slightly inclined slope between them and Robb if the centre of his army would collapse. And the time to build some better trenches wasn't there, but even if it was, he would've ordered to make something like the ones he is watching now. 

_I want them to charge after all. And what a better prize to be than my head?_

That fledging thought made him sharply smile. 

_Well, they can try and take it._

Here, on the highest point in the entire Grey plains. A tall dead tree stands guard right behind him, a silent sentinel with branches floundering for the sky like a choir of dead hands. The ground has nearly dried from the last rains, perfect for his defensive positioning. Mychel Redfort is at his right, a squire only one nameday older than him, ready to ride with instructions for Ser Brynden as soon as required. 

The time was nearly coming.

"Milord," a new voice announced, as a messenger rapidly approached on a horse, taking off a half-helmet, "Ser Helman asks for reinforcement on the right flank."

_What?_

Robb could only stare at him. It is his first battle, that is true, he doesn't have much experience, but is it usual to already ask for more this early? No fights had broken out yet! 

Yet, Tallhart is everything but clueless in warfare, and so deep-blue eyes started to roam the battlefield once again, searching for something that he could've missed earlier. Actually, the right-wing is the most underpowered, and together with the fact that the enemy left flank is the most bulked up, it makes for a frankly staggering contrast. And yet Ser Helman should be more than capable of withstanding even the most overwhelming pressure. Also, if Asher Forrester emerged triumphant over the enemy vanguard in the last days, he should return to the battlefield from that direction, and apparently, the enemy is thoroughly aware of the same fact. That is also more hope that the Wolfswood Lord successfully managed his mission.

The Rills archers' stand there, proud, in the rearguard, probably surrounding the enemy general, but Robb can't honestly tell if they incurred losses.

On the other hand, his left-wing counts at least four-hundred soldiers more than the other side of the formation. It's pretty unbalanced, Robb had known this when he gave the order, but it all ties back to his strategy.

A strategy the red-haired young Lord knows to be a massive gamble, but it already had been when he determined to guide the army South from Thorren Square, trying to follow the shining stars of victory. Would it live to become the right choice? On this fateful day, they'll inevitably find out, on this plains that soon will be stained red.

Winds howled in the distance, fierce, and he scrunched his nose.

_The Gods are irate. A bad omen._

At his side, Alyn seemed to agree.

But Robb can't doubt now, the Gods themselves saw fit to fate him for such a hurdle, to kill his northern brothers.

"Tell the trumpeters to be ready at the signal, and that today, they will herald our victory," Robb told his guard, head lifted high.

His horse restless under him, a small but firm pat calmed the beast. It was nearly time, he could feel it in his bones, as sure as his beating heart. The tension, the whispers placidly drifting through the air, telling of a thousand stories, stories of knights and war and victory, of swords and shields and spears, of blood and bones, of muscles and sweat.

Stories of triumph and glory.

And, face to the enemy army, countless warhorns reverberated on the other side of the plain, making the earth itself shiver, and after a moment of pure silence, shouts and cries rose wildly from the hostile army, and Dustin banners started to move, a cavalry charge that would make even the most courageous man tremble in fear, immediately followed by the foe's core infantry.

* * *

The headquarters were secure, and his formation pretty good, at least for the limited time he had, yet Lord Rodrik Ryswell looked around him, uneasy. Doubts. Damned doubts. It didn't show very much on his old and wise face, of course, and his beautiful adorned white beard, now reaching his chest, has always been able to hide the few times his emotions got the better of him, even if it happened more time than he would care to admit.

Still, he is the Lord of a proud house, a house of the first men, he has been taught to do so when he was only a child, when Lord Edwyle Stark was old, but still an oftentimes guest of their humble castle amid the Hills. And now Stark banners are rising in front of him, in front of the army he is at the head of. He knew it would come to this, as soon as his daughter came to him asking his help for this little rebellion, and she was right, of course, if there ever was a time to act, it was now, a strange political mess only furthered by the plague and death of Eddard Stark, with a _Baratheon_ on the throne.

Oh, his brother would've never believed him, the Gods bless him in the lands beyond.

Except the other voice in his head kept chanting the timeless songs of Rylan Ryswell and his stand against the seditious Ryders, the story of how the Red Stallion's house came to be. But he took up arms anyway, not for power, nor gold, nor a desire of warfare, but just for Barbrey, his family. And for his family, he will be victorious. That, or his house would fade. 

_The Starks are not worthy of guiding us, father._

But now, with the northern sun shining over them, the Lord's mind was not here, but wandering far back in his memories of old.

He fought on the Stepstones in the Ninepenny war, with the likes of Jason Lannister and Barristan Selmy -the duel with Maelys the Monstrous had been brutal- and years later he fought in the Rebellion, and for those who were able to understand, those who lived and breathed war, there was nothing more beautiful, nothing more utterly chilling than the tremendous merge of Robert's Baratheon martial might and Eddard Stark tactical mind. How could a man of the sword not be entranced by those two? It was like watching the stunning Rhaella dance, gentle and soft, daintily gliding on the dance floor, but with a body of steel and a tune of death. Pure power and pure strategy together behind an army the equal never walked Westeros' ground. The chivalry and pristine skill of the proud knights of the Vale, the fierceness and resilience of the Northmen, the pliability of the Rivermen and the stubbornness and strength of the Stormlanders. There wasn't man who wouldn't follow an order of the Quiet Wolf, as there wasn't man who wouldn't follow the furious Stag as he charged on his white steed.

And what is now in front of him, oh, beautiful can't even begin to describe it. Like a nostalgic dive in his past, like living those days once again. And he would bet every sum of golden dragons that even the likes of Jon Arryn and Randyll Tarly would have to agree. It's like... a rough gem, wanting to become perfection. But that's exactly the problem, the enemy formation is ideal, their soldiers flawlessly working as one, and they made him chase them in a most skillfull manner, to arrive here, it reminds him of the Battle of the Bells, in a strange way.

Here, where Rodrik has the advantage. Not so much for a sure win, clearly, but still enough to make him engage.

It doesn't make sense.

The pieces are moving on the board in a way that the Ryswell Lord troubles to understand. That's the worst thing that can happen, and his nephew right in the centre is already preparing the first assault.

Indeed, it didn't look like something that Cerwyn or Tallhart could've devised. So, maybe, they were in charge in the march, and then little Lord Robb took control, ruining their long-term strategy? But then the question remains of what were they planning to achieve with this mad dash South. A huff escaped his lips, he hasn't nearly enough information, the hourglass is always favourable to the defenders.

If that wasn't enough, the outrider issue was also weighing heavily on his mind.

Because most of their them didn't return, both from their right and left, and that's a calculated risk in chasing an army. But on the left, skirmishes broke out between his personal mounted archers and who is probably Asher Forrester, while on the right, many simply didn't return. They just vanished, without any sort of trace or evidence. Surely, there could be another small enemy force on his right, helped in hiding by the forest there looming, a forest they approached only in their last day of marching.

"May I give the leave, Lord Rodrik?"

How can he refuse? He guided these four thousand and more men here, taking them from their homes and their lives to rebel against their Warden, with only a promise of gold and remembrance of due loyalty, what can he do now? Turn back? 

The Lord's old, grey eyes met his second's in command.

He nodded.

And so horns exploded around him, and after a chilling battle-cry, the Barrow-knights charged, guided by his nephew sky-raised sword. Impulsive, ever the first to fight and the last to give up. Lord Ryswell did give him the command of the cavalry, though, he is a more than able warrior, and now he is heading towards a wall of steel.

Oh, if before he didn't like this, now a pit of dark distress is opening out in his gut, maybe he should send a messenger now that there's still time and...

"My Lord?" Greengood asked at his side, confused.

But Lord Rodrik keeps watching the bulk of his army advance, his hand tightening around the pommel of his sword.

He should give the order to the flanks, right now, the two commanders are probably waiting, eager and confused. That should be the right move, with the greater numbers, and a further charge with the small cavalry battalions deployed on the two sides, they can surround and slowly drown them in a pincer, hoping the Stark cavalry would decide to only be reactive.

"My Lord, your orders?"

* * *

Lord Medger Cerwin moved his eyes to the first line of the formation, the one that in mere seconds would take the brunt of the enemy charge. Veterans, for the most part, men that would follow him even to the scorching sands of Dorne without an ounce of hesitation, asking for nothing in return. 

Many times he found himself in a similar situation, and in all of those times, he always thought how he would gladly die side by side with such men.

This time is no different.

Trumpets sounded loud from the headquarters, and with practised precision, his soldiers moved to form perfect columns, their spears lowering. He drilled them well. 

As soil and dirt rose from the force of the horses in front of him, he prepared for the impact, sword in hand.

* * *

They have the gall to open up in front of him? Truly? The most powerful cavalry in all of the North is mere seconds from them, and they change formation?

They will pay for this, he would cut through them like a knife through butter.

* * *

"Lord Robb?"

And the young Lord surely heard the soldier, but he couldn't detach his heavy gaze from the raging battlefield.

 _Why aren't the enemy flanks moving?_ The charge already made contact, and the rebels were filtering through his formation, all as planned, but then why weren't the enemy flanks moving? What strange ploy were they preparing?

_Why? Why?_

Robb's armour was too heavy, it was starting to mildly smother his breath. What he wouldn't give right now for a Myrish glass. Crows were meanwhile starting to gather in the sky, a promise for a feast just behind their wide wings, and feast they surely would.

"My Lord, the rear of the left-wing is in place, as you requested."

Is Riswell waiting for Robb to pivot the Stark's flanks and encircle their cavalry so that he can then send his wings to the central fray? That would be stupid, the rebels could find a chance at winning that way, but all the Barrow-knights would die a certain death for a risky tactic that could _maybe_ get the battle in their favour, and all of this only if Robb decided not to retire as soon as he saw the move. However, every minute that passes is an advantage for the red-haired boy and a pledge of death for his opponent's cavalry.

...

_Are they idiots?_

He twists his ring on his finger, lost in thoughts, and he can't honestly find a deeper layer, no matter how much he focuses.

Whilst the soldier, probably still waiting for an answer, was staring at him. Even Redfort seemed a bit weirded out.

_Oh, I was probably mumbling._

Hence the young Lord's hands gracefully moved, as if to form an open curtain over the battlefield, his voice errant, wandering, _Yes, this is the way,_ "give the signal, and after the left rear moves behind the centre, send a messenger to Ser Helman and Lord Lake, tell them to be on the lookout and assume battle-ready position towards the fight without engaging, but quick to change direction if needed, and tell the reserves to completely deploy and go cover their sides." 

_That will put an axe over every fighting rebel's head, perfect._

And if that would not urge the rest of the enemy's forces to finally move, Robb would give the order to close the encirclement as soon as his great-uncle force would become visible.

"Also, signal Cerwyn and the centre army to shore up the formation's four angles," he carried on speaking, his voice intensely cutting.

The courier once again looked strangely at him, then immediately obeyed.

But even when nearly all of the Stark's formation moved, and it was a majestic, beautiful sight, he could still see the Ryswell's banners in the distance, merely bathing, unmoving, in the afternoon sun.

_Why?_

He couldn't stop watching. The Dustin's knights still fearlessly fighting, but now crushing against the troops Robb ordered to move to the foot of the hill, irredeemably trapped between enemies and their own pushing infantry. Even in this dire situation, they kept advancing and advancing, true in their pledge of courage, and the blue-eyed boy can't help but admire their absolute tenacity. But with the Wintermoor and Tallhart cavalry slowly approaching on their sides, there's nothing else they can do. They will die.

_Why? Why hasn't the rest of their army moved?_

* * *

Ser Beren Dustin's sword fell another of the Stark's dogs, bathing once again in red spilling blood. It is indeed the thrill of the fight, the pure rush of thrusting Barrowmaker in an opponent's neck that keeps the will to fight aflame in his heart. As another screaming soldier approached him, his weary arm had to incredibly strain to fend off the quick enemy spear aiming for his horse's neck, to then break the other man guard and stab him under the armpit. 

Another fatal blow.

But it wouldn't last long, Gods, _he_ wouldn't last long. This fucking spearmen kept coming, and they're well-armed, a true pain to kill. But, oh, his head will not be very cheap to take.

"ARROWS!" 

_Shit. Fuck._

He raised his shield, feeling more than hearing the muffled impacts and dying screams. Fortunately, his armour is durable. But his head hurts, he is sweating far too much and his ears are ringing, courtesy of a lucky strike during the first impact. 

_The fucker got me alright, from his ridiculous column._

And while at first it seemed like a shitty tactic, now, without support for the rest of his army, it revealed deadly. His horse, even if one of the best stallions of the Rills, can't go much longer in this mud of blood, bodies, dirt and broken metal. What can they do? He needs to think. 

His sword found once again the face of another soldier unfortunate enough to find the Dustin heir as an opponent, metal crashed on metal, and his weapon remained stuck in the opponent's messy remain of what was once a helmet, but only for a second.

Meanwhile, another rider, a very familiar one, indeed, approached him. 

"Beren, what is happening? What is your great-uncle doing?" 

Thorren, thank the Gods.

"I don't know, motherfucker, but if we don't act now we're going to be wiped out," the Dustin knight answered with gnashing teeth.

The only reason it hadn't happened already was due to the Stark cavalry choosing not to charge their flank, to just remain there, motionless, for whatever stupid reason. _Very grateful, I guess._

The one on his right was Lord Lake, he saw the banners, and he was just moving his riders according to some kind of formation, and the same thing was happening on the other side. And maybe it's because they're afraid of engaging with the threat that the rest of the Ryswell-Dustin army makes in the distance, but that was not the fucking plan! The plan was for everyone except the reserves and the Rills' archers to charge! What bullshit is this?

So, Instead of a nice and good battle, Beren is trapped between his own advancing infantry and that fucking new Stark contingent that came out of thin air, and that is now blocking his access to the slope. The slope that is so poorly made he could ride through it in a straight line, probably. And without something to take out pressure from his flanks, his Barrow Knights are dying like flies.

He has to do something, and now.

_Fuck._

"Thorren," just making himself heard over dying scream and clashing metal was a fairly taxing task. But his friend promptly came to his side, as ever.

"Take the knights and turn back," Beren continued, and knowing he would otherwise be interrupted, he raised his sword to his chest, "you have to find a way to regroup the infantry and make them stop pushing, and after you did, try to break towards our left, hoping our wings will move."

_Our only hope._

"I will take fifty men, and we will try and end this," with that, from behind his closed helmet, his eyes rose to the hilltop, on that great and imposing direwolf running in the wind.

* * *

Rhaenys watched the city behind her, melancholic, and if she tried very hard maybe she could feign to be in the terrace of the Spear Tower down in Sunspear, looking over the slithering Shadow city and the endless dunes of the Broken arm.

A lonely sighed escaped her chapped lips. No amount of wishful dreaming would take her out from this hellish place.

She never even saw Dorne! Or any other of the Seven Kingdoms, truly. This palace, his red tiles and towers, his inhabitants and secrets, that's all she ever knew, her life and her chains. And even if it's petty to envy Allyria, her best friend, she merely can't help to watch half angry and half resigned every time she leaves in her beautiful white and purple carriage, built of wood so refined and so pleasing to the eye, to take the Boneway and follow the Torentine until the white towers of Starfall appear on the horizon.

Her family seat, Rhaenys never visited, nor the water gardens, where all her cousins play night and day, at least that what she heard from her uncle Oberyn's letters. And he is the only family she met, that one time in her childhood, she saw from a distance Obara Sand, the first of the sand snakes, while the rest she would probably pass on the street without a second glance. Even her Uncle Doran, the Prince of Dorne, the white-haired girl can only imagine by his own description in the letters.

It's sad.

While the other side of her family, well, very rarely she thinks about them. Too much pain.

The sun, the Smith's furnace, is nearly at his zenith, so probably she can wait and rest at least a little more until her assigned Kingsguard has to take her to luncheon. Her hair floated in the breeze, and please, _not another meal with the King, I can't do it today._

Every sentence at that table is a disaster waiting to unfold, with His Highness always and irredeemably drunk, angered with both Rhaenys and his wife, while the queen always unleashes her anger on her, and Joffrey treats her like a two-coins whore because they're betrothed, and coming from a boy so young, it's certainly scary. 

There isn't a single occasion where the almond-eyed princess left the finely decorated room without at least a small tear waiting to burst from her orbs. 

"Ah, lost again in the land without hassles, I see," a cheeky voice spoke behind her.

Rhaenys straightened her dress, putting her hands intertwined in front of her, as green eyes intently watched her. 

A smile graced her face, though.

"Ser Jaime," she said, "is it time to gift our presence to the King?" 

"Ah fortunately not, but it's our eminent Master of Coin that requires our presence this lucky day."

_What? Hoster Tully?_

Apparently, surprise was too evident on the scarred girl's face, because the blonde Kingsguard laughed in his trademark exaggeration, to then lower his head with a flourish to reach Rhaenys height.

It's like looking in the face of a jester, what a showoff.

"And for me to think my teaching didn't go to waste, to then be completely shattered like this, immeasurable disappointment and giant letdown," he announced as his white cloak swayed behind him. 

She never understood him, not well enough at least, the Kingslayer, son of the Great Tywin Lannister and second most skilled swordsman of the Reign, if not the whole world, and the thing is, he doesn't take anything seriously. Maybe she really is still too young.

But it was he who saved her on that cursed day, he who educated her in the matters on the court, in fake smiles and hidden words. 

Probably the closest thing she has to a father, or at least a brother.

She rolled her eyes, "it's just that I haven't seen Lord Tully for an entire moon, if not more, and maybe he spoke to me, _maybe_ , two sentences in the last year, why would he want to dine with me?" 

Jaime is the closest to the Queen, and the Queen hates her, and he is Kingsguard to the King that hates her family, always hated it, and gave his best to try and end it, so why is Rhaneys so important to him, why has he opened his heart to him, and let her do the same back?

"That is not a valid motivation to lose your composure and that you know," the lion knight straightened up, watching the door behind him for a small moment.

"We have to go, or Ser Barristan will go mad with worry, we dallied enough"

It's moments like this that makes her nearly not hate this place, and it's pretty sad that they're determined by two old men and the sporadic visits by her best friend. So they returned indoor, taking the hallway that leads to the small council quarters.

Walking in silence, as ghosts haunting the halls.

"Ser Jaime?" 

The blonde head immediately turned to the sun-kissed girl.

"Do you think everyone can find love?"

The kingsguard's smile is the most irreverent thing she has ever seen.

"Do not fear my princess, you will find love one day, and I can't wait to see all the mess that's gonna happen then," he gazed lazily around him, and then he whispered, "after all, there's no limit to the things you'll do for love."

* * *

Asher spurred once again his poor horse, and if the beast was only half as tired as its rider, the black-haired warrior wouldn't find fault if it dropped half-dead right now.

But they had to move.

_We're near, I feel it, there's no way I'm gonna arrive late at my first battle._

"Ride, men, we'll show them true tenacity!"

Only half of those who left the main camp days ago was her now, but they completed the mission, warriors he came to know fell left and right under the arrows of those damned Rills' archers, but they managed to slow them and even kill a big bunch of the outriders.

Yesterday, though, the Forrester Lordling risked far too much, and had to withdraw north to avoid a fight they probably wouldn't have come out alive from.

For hours they kept riding, until finally, the plain opened in front of them, a sight like no others.

Horns and trumpet were echoing madly, and while there was certainly fighting under Lord Robb's headquarters, the Ryswell army was still deploying distant from the actual battle, but was at least moving fast.

Asher couldn't believe his eyes.

_What are they doing?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for reading!


	10. Ready or not: pt.2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Another chapter, very long, hope you'll like it. I had to go back and edit a few things in chapter 9, to make Robb's scene in this one transition a bit more fluidly, but nothing major. That said, thanks to everyone that commented, left kudos, bookmarked, subscribed and read, you all made my day! Feel free to leave a comment, I love them, and discussing with everyone who wants is always so fun!

Ser Helman tightened the hold on his loyal war-axe, knuckles whitening under the old and used chainmail as the battle raged wildly right in front of him. To stay still while his allies fight, what a fucking jest! His ancestors are probably laughing at him from the realms beyond.

Still, those are the orders from the headquarters, from his liege, his duty.

...

An excited tingle travelled down his spine.

_Come on, come on! My blades thirst for blood!_

Meanwhile, another one of his household knights approached him, trotting, the man's voice trying to overtake the incredibly high sound of steel on steel around them, yet to no avail. The Thorren's square Lord had to actually raise his visor to better understand what was coming out of his subordinate's mouth. 

"... and all the troops are in position!"

"WHAT?"

"The Ryswell army is still idle, we received no further orders from Lord Robb, and all of the troops are in position, my Lord!" The man repeated, nearly shouting.

_Good, that's good,_ Helman thought, watching the Dustin bands get speared between the Stark centre infantry. An attempt at rallying the Barrow Knights was sparking, though, some asshole clad in yellow trying to lead the few riders left towards the centre of that racket, where the rebel infantry was already trying to regroup for a last stand. That had to be halted, and now. Where was that old codger of Cerwyn, anyway? But still, no orders were coming down the hill, and Helman would have to trust his Lord's decision of not moving, although it could grow detrimental. After all, from down here, he could not see the complete picture. And trusting a boy as green as morning grass was difficult, even if a Stark of birth, and even if he had proved himself with a stunningly brilliant strategy. Those seeds of doubt would have to wait, however, a decision had been made days ago, in the tent, a decision by all the commanders to serve the crimson-haired Lordling, and that decision they would follow.

And what of the Blackfish? He should be close, mere moments away, him and those Vale knights of his, at least if the sun speaks true and if what that Redfort boy said was not complete and utter bullshit. 

Another horn shattered the battlefield, followed by screams upon screams, he couldn't establish accurately where from, though.

It is somewhat alarming, because they're winning, that is clear, but who knows what could change? He has seen battles going to shit faster than a blink. And while his brothers keep nobly dying, sword in hand, he remains watching from the sidelines, painstakingly unmoving. And while tactically the best move, probably -he had never been the best at tactics- the dishonour and shame blossoming in his heart seemed not willing to fade, but only grow strong. Moment after moment, longing for a battlefield that's only a hundred feet away.

_I have to trust the Lordling._

He cannot move, not now, it would throw the entire formation in complete disarray and only favour the enemy. Oh, how he wants to, though. It's nearly a torture, his muscles practically straining to advance, to move forward and dive into the fight, and then bash the skull of some traitorous cunt. But not now, not now. 

Sweat under his heavy armour plates, and his horse clattering for what it had been bred to live for. 

_Come on!_

And then... it just happened, as if answer to his desperate prayers. From nothing, a large flock of crows rose in the distance, right from the edge of the forest, and right before his waiting eyes. Out of the line of the towering pine trees, ranks of Southern knights suddenly appeared, proud yet imposing, astride their embellished warhorses. From only a few, they came to number various hundreds in mere moments, as was expected, creating a long wall of silk and steel, ranging the entire left flank of the plains. At their head was a very familiar sight, that of a fish-scaled armoured Ser on a black mount, cloak as dark as the moonless night floating in the wind and sword raised at the sky. Banners upon banners of Riverlands and Vale's houses bloomed the battlefield, jumping trouts on red and blue, claret castles on white, white weirwoods and bronze runes, dancing maidens and purple bells, framed by gold and silver thread. Magnificent.

It is unquestionably not an easy task to guide a host through the pitfalls and hurdles of a Northern wood, but if one were to do it _so_ well, so swiftly, seamlessly and quiet under enemies' eyes, it would surely be the Blackfish. 

Something akin to a giant shiver seemed to travel the entire battlefield, followed by an incredibly heavy silence. And then, like a rising tide, countless voices started to cheer, blending with orderly trumpets and wild horns and creating a noise so loud to try and reach even the farthest eagles in their home in the sky. Now, before everyone can fully comprehend what is happening, before the enemy can even try and make a countermove -not that there is a way for them to overturn this mess, at this point- now is the moment to strike the final and decisive blow. And apparently, his knights think the same, they're _thriving_.

"MEN," Helman shouted at the top of his lungs, "THIS IS OUR MOMENT. IT WILL BE OUR BLADES THAT WILL PUT THE LAST SENTENCE ON THE FOE'S HEAD!"

His gaze fell to the back of the Stark infantry holding the now desperate attempt of the remnants of the Dustins' centre army to get out that death trap. The charge signal erupted behind him, and as one, the Thorren's square knights started to move, as their Lord heading them watched the allied infantry in front of them open to reveal the last stunned Barrow Knights. 

_Frontal crash._

Brutal. But even tired, even after nearly an hour of savage fighting, those Barrow Knights leave the first collision with the Tallhart cavalry almost toe to toe.

Men and mounts alike fall, blood flows, furthermore soaking the muddy ground.

There is a reason for them to be called the best warriors in the North, after all. They fight like demons. But between neighing horses and singing steel, Helman's axe rose and fell on every foolish challenger that dared present themselves before him. He is bigger, stronger, with a will of iron, born to kill. 

_Let them come._

* * *

Beren couldn't believe his eyes.

The two crossing axes finely engraved on his armour's breastplate, symbols of his more than noble lineage, have long been thoroughly covered by the spilled blood of his enemies. And the plan he made, somewhen around ten minutes ago -it feels like _hours_ \- now seems only like the pitifullest, most futile, chance at victory, like a salmon hopping upstream hoping it will someway affect the course of the river flow. And why?

Well, because row after row of knights of the Vale have come out from fucking nowhere, and now not even a miracle could help his uncle Rodrik change the outcome of this utter disaster of a battle. And could it even be called a battle anymore? More likely a massacre.

But at least uncle and all the Ryswell troops are far away from the actual fighting, that will at least avoid a complete one-sided slaughter.

Because of course this was a trap, they've been played like a bunch of fools.

Searing pain abruptly burst in his right leg, the Dustin commander violently brought back to reality by an enemy spear. 

_Fuck._

He grimaced.

_I won't give up._

His sword dropped on the wooden shaft shutting out from his limb, brutally breaking it, and the wielder fell to the same fate shortly after. Even against unfathomable odds, even against the most frightening of foes, a true warrior does not yield.

Still, a tired look revealed just more enemy soldiers around him.

"Fuck."

Did their scouts fail to see an army approach? How is that possible? Did Lady Barbrey not receive news from the South of such great movements?

But now it matters not, does it? Political manoeuvres and war strategies are best left long away from reeling swords.

And maybe... maybe there was still time, Beren tried to convince himself. Maybe he could entrust his life to the Gods of the River and the Hills, to open an unlikely way to the enemy headquarters, and with the young Stark as a hostage, the battle would end without the complete and utter obliteration of all his men. 

_Yes, forward._

Yet, this last wall of Stark infantry, the last obstacle remaining between him and the slope, between him and the swords of Robb Stark's personal guards, is far more prepared than he could've ever imagined, real veterans. 

He would not give up, though, never.

Again, parry, slash and kill.

Only, behind the helmet of his few remaining men around him, of his few brave companions, he could nearly imagine, nearly _see_ , that look of defeat and resignation that is also threatening to take over his bursting heart, decree of the Knights of the Vale.

"Follow me," thus Beren pleaded, voice as strong as it ever was, "one last time!"

* * *

Now they have the numerical advantage, now Robb can put an end to all of this in one fell swoop.

"Alyn," the young Lord's voice trembled, nervous yet excited, "immediately ride to Lord Lake, tell him to join Lord Brynden with all his troops, to then arrange before the Ryswell's unblooded army."

"Yes, milord."

Under his sea-blue eyes, this beautiful canvas of the battlefield had changed once again. And it reminded him of home, of granite towers and wailing Weirwoods, of reading in Maester Luwin's study and watching the guards train in the courtyard worryingly early in the morning. It reminded him of father bedtime's stories.

His heart was nearly exploding.

Now they have the situational advantage, the enemy taken irredeemably off guard. _Perfect._

_Is this victory?_

...

The sudden urge to laugh in satisfaction was nearly overwhelming, but he managed to contain it in a small symbolic shiver, hand fondling his sword's handle.

_Watch me, Lya, watch me, father, on this hill I stand, victorious, did I make you proud?_

Now the crimson-haired boy should have given Ser Helman the order to finish the encircled Dustin troops, but... the Thorren's Square Lord was already dealing with it, as expected of a man of such calibre. It was all moving as Robb wished, like a well-oiled machine.

"Amazing," he couldn't help but murmur.

But then why a swirl of emotions was flooding his gut?

And so, while the entire formation changed once again, his Great-uncle's troops swiftly joined by the Stark left flank, the Lordling just watched, eyes narrowing, high atop his horse.

"It surely is amazing, my Lord" Mychel Redfort marvelled at his side, "Lord Brynden is undoubtedly a true Knight."

Astonishing, rapturing, incredible, and it just made the young sky-eyed boy feel so _small_.

"He is," so Robb leaned right, to the young squire, "and I never met him, not once before now."

"For real?" The Vale boy's deep brown eyes widened, "He will surely be impressed, then, My Lord. It is an absolute and complete victory! That guard from before, Alyn, he told me how you alone came up with this strategy! And you are only two-and-ten, my Lord! The sheer..."

"No," Robb interrupted, frustrated, but only a bit, head still held high. "It is not entirely true, I did not know what was happening, why Lord Ryswell did not move," he angrily frowned, gazing at the sky, "heavens, even now I am not wholly sure, as the course of the battle is already determined. I just took the right decisions, reacting well to my enemy's moves, all following what was thought to me. I cannot even imagine or compare to the might of a general like my great-uncle, and I probably could not have won without my commanders' wisdom and ability of the field." 

A moment of silence stretched between the two.

"But," the young Stark Lord continued, a small, familiar grin returning to his face, "I won, so I guess you're right," he clasped his arms behind his back, just a bit proudly, "and you know you can call me Robb, right? And, perchance, I could call you Mychel?"

And Mychel immediately reddened, countless freckles slowly vanishing from his cheeks, "I-I wouldn't dare, my Lord, i-i-it would be e-extremely inappropriate," he babbled, and Robb couldn't help but distractedly and shamelessly laugh, his pale ringed hand quickly moving to cover his mouth.

Were all southerners this strict? 

"That is for me to decide, isn't it?" So the blue-eyed boy replied, "you are here, on this hill, like me, and we are nearly the same in age. I don't see why you should treat me differently than you would treat one of your fellow squires, and I bet you don't defer to them and blush when they talk to you," Robb paused, "maybe I am a Lord, a Lord Paramount, and maybe you are not, but that is a burden for my shoulders, not a mantle to boast about." 

Or at least, that was what Lord Eddard always told both him and Lyarra.

Perfect, now the crimson-haired boy felt a hint of crimson in his face as well, and Mychel isn't even looking in his direction anymore, why? 

Still, it had to be said.

"I-I will then, Robb," the Vale squire replied, though, from behind his straw-like hair, "but what you said earlier," he continued, "about just taking the right decision, it's not true, you behaved a true commander."

"About that, I'll have to believe your insight, then."

Gale howled around them.

The realization came to Robb sudden, uninvited.

_I want to be better, though._

And it's true, he wants to be better, no, actually, he wants to be the absolute best. He wants everyone to look at him and see someone to admire, to follow, someone to fear, not a true commander, but _the_ commander. He wants his loved ones, those who he cares most about, to watch him and feel safe, to watch him and believe there's nothing that cannot fall under his sword. He wants his enemies to dread even _thinking_ about opposing him, and their heads rolling if they dare to.

His breath quickened.

_"War is a terrible thing, Robb, and I hope you'll never have to realize it,"_ the disturbing voice in his head reminded him.

_Is it though, father?_ He nearly shouted in inexplicable frustration. 

_How am I supposed to protect Lya, how am I supposed to protect my subjects, if not with a sword in my hand? You died, you died and left me alone, tell me then, how can I make you proud if not through steel and blood?_

That is what he wants, steel, flowing blood, and _war._

_War._

A wavering hand touched his forearm.

"I know I am not wrong," Mychel said, watching him, "I'm just a squire, the third son of the Heir of the Redfort, and the Seven, by their wisdom, chose not to grace myself nor with prowess at the sword nor with such a mind to favour my house," the brown-eyed boy slowly admitted, his other hand touching the small clasp of his red mantle, "but you, R-Robb, you have unquestionably been blessed by the Gods."

The burgundy haired boy just stared, "I do not think you..."

A strange sense of stillness permeated the air, every noise fading, every glance immediately stolen by white flags slowly rising from the Ryswell headquarter.

_They surrendered._

"They surrendered," he repeated, this time aloud, eyes shimmering but with a small snarl starting to stretch on his face, while, at his side, Mychel was smiling. This is what he was born to do, is it not? War, the battlefield, his legacy, his dream.

_Oh, how beautiful to have a dream!_

And for it, he is going to take every last one of those cowardly Ryswell commanders and let their head rolls.

But then a scream cut off the young Stark Lord's thoughts, eyes instantly lured towards the noise.

Barrow knights were fighting his guards, a small group, not more than ten, not enough to pose a real threat, but not so many to be spotted climbing the slope. Still, to reach the headquarters, they must be fearful warriors.

"MY LORD!" Someone shouted, time seemed to stop.

Not a moment had passed, not a moment from the two boys' conversation, not a moment to admire the masterful swordsmanship of who is probably Ser Beren Dustin, considering the adorned helmet and the engraved yellow-enamelled armour, fighting like the Dragonknight reborn. Not a moment since the battle ended. Because through a crevice of steel and limbs flew an arrow, a single arrow, soaring almost silently in the wind to skewer Robb's left ankle from side to side.

His horse bucking, the last thing the blue-eyed boy saw was the approaching ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! And one thing, do you believe I should keep Ser Beren in the story? The Ryswell army lost, obv, but he is such a good character! If you have an opinion, tell me! if not, thanks for reading and see you in the next chapter, hopefully!


	11. Marriage alliances

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE READ.  
> After careful consideration, I moved Lyarra's part that was originally at the end of the last chapter at the beginning of this one, it just felt more right like this. If you already read that part, you can skip to: "Shall we begin?" and read from there, the rest remained almost unchanged.  
> As always, thanks to everyone that left kudos, subscribed, bookmarked or left a comment, you made my day!  
> That said, let me know ehat you think, if you want, and thanks for reading!

_Just lone, wandering droplets of rain managed to stretch as far as to touch her exposed and gently shivering skin, for a small protruding rooftop covered this small balcony. And all around her, those masterfully woven shapes of flying Dragons and coiling Leviathans denied Lyarra her loneliness, proud yet stuck yet again alive in their ever motionless marble forms, telling, whispering stories of ages gone, ages of magic._ _An argent seahorse peeked, stunning to the eye, from the slim column by her side, and her fingers, careful as floating feathers, brushed the engraved creature, lightly, as if it could escape._

_Beautiful._

_Yet, her head was pounding._

_But how could Lyarra's earnest eyes leave the bewitching fury of the crashing and fading waves? Even the colossal cliffs down under her feet didn't seem enough to contain the unparalleled rage of the storm. How can she worry? She, witness of the Gods' wrath?_

_Lightning flashed in the distance, making her flinch._

_Where is she?_

_Because she never saw the sea, she never left her family lands, really, but it always fascinated her, the lawless reign of the Drowned God, as told by the gently weaved words of the ancient poets._

_"Laenor," a melodious, otherwordly voice demanded her attention._

_And turning, Lyarra breath froze still in her throat, because the slender dark-haired girl had never laid eyes a person so beautiful, so utterly and perfectly... well, perfect. Molten silver hair gracefully shrouded the woman's bare shoulders, nearly glowing in this eerie and unnatural darkness, olive in complexion, yet a brushstroke paler than the young Stark Lady's, her eyes two pure and hypnotic burning amethysts. And her dress, it seemed woven by the Moon herself, long, sweetly hugging her flawless body, all spotless curves and sharp, clever lineaments, idyllically framed by jewels of the purest gold. Truly the image of a Valyrian of old, as simple as crackling fire but more enchanting than all the treasures in Casterly Rock. And while Lyarra wanted, craved, to know how couldn't the woman feel the gale's cold touch, her mind knew that it would be a ridiculous question to ask._

_That fiery, mesmerizing skin, after all, holds the will of a true dragonrider, mistress of Vhagar, the dragon of Visenya herself._

_"Laena," so Lyarra breathed out._

_"Are you well, brother?" Those entrancing violet stars tilted, drawing -and drawing her- near, "you seem a little out of sorts."_

_-Brother?-_

_"No," the words found their way out of the Northern Lady's mouth, uninvited, pained, "it's just... all that's happening with uncle Viserys at court, and Rhaenyra," she paused, hands fidgeting on the cold banister, "I am truly worried about her, about her childish rivalry with the queen, and I am worried about the children." She paused, "Not that it's anything new, but you've been here, far away, you haven't seen how much that pit of vipers fell even further."_

_And her legs trembled, but Laena, safe and warm presence at her side, intertwined their arms._

_"That I can imagine," she sighed, resting her head on the young girl's shoulder, "and honestly, I think it is all to blame on the Hightower bitch."_

_A lighthearted burst of giggles escaped Lyarra's pouty lips._

_"Think about it," the silver-haired woman continued, now carefully smiling, "we are Valyrians, dragonlords, we rule from above, why should we drag ourselves to the levels of this puny nobles' ambitions? Their stupid beg for power, it makes me queasy."_

_Still, Gods, it seemed like some idiot decided to use her head as target for bow practice. And Rhaenyra, Viserys, those are all names that remind her of something. But what? She can't focus._

_The world blurred, just for a moment._

_"The blood of Daenys the Dreamer and Aegon the Conqueror flows in our veins, we are dragons in the flesh, nearly Gods. Uncle Viserys should've married me, not that Andal whore."_

_What is Laena talking of? Why does her head hurt so much?_

_"Do you think us the same as them, brother? Do they see their loved ones in their dream, like us? Like you did when we were children, coming into my room to tell me stories about little ser Joffrey? Do they see the future? The past? Do they ride fire incarnate? Can they marry their siblings, like Grandmother? Do you think they can sense magic as Mother does?"_

_Laena's voice lowered, becoming nearly a whisper. " We are the legacy of Valyria, the torch that will guide the world within famine and wars, within pestilence and death, because, as the prophecies foretold, it is the dragon that has three heads, not the lion, or the wolf, or the falcon, but the dragon."_

_Lightning flashed in the distance._

_Then clapping thunder._

And Lyarra opened her eyes, welcomed by the shadowy yet familiar patterns of her room's ceiling, small tears gently descending her cheeks.

Why is she crying? Was she dreaming?

...

_"You cannot escape your blood."_

Something flashed behind her puffy eyes, a painful jolt annoyingly travelling behind her forehead.

So the black-haired girl pulled herself up, taking a deep, calming breath. In front of her, ceremonially placed on the oaken desk, perfectly visible even in the dark, was Dark sister. Proud and magnificent, as if mocking her, the smoky Valyrian steel blade believed lost for two-hundred years at least. Believed lost until Lyarra found it under her mother's grave, anyway.

_Why were you there, you stupid sword?_

Thankfully, the sword does not answer.

_Today is the day,_ her mind then suggested, sudden, abrupt, stealing uneasy eyes from that stunning piece of craftsmanship.

_I need to get ready._

No one happened to wake her up, and the shutters opening over the empty streets of Wintertown just confirms the early hour. The sun still shy, chilly morning air invading her room, immediately seeking for the fireplace resting embers.

Meanwhile, in the corner, just under her favourite shelf and books, Ghost and Grey Wind were staring at her with their wide and pleading orbs, sprawled on the bunch of fluffy blankets they had claimed as home for the last sennights. And could their want for food be any more obvious? The cloudy-furred direwolf actually tried to stand on his bad leg, and while he was still tilting a bit too much on his left side, it was at least better than the first worrying days of limping throughout the castle. Rolling her eyes, the young girl took some dried meat from her bedside table's drawer and threw it to them. Her white pup -how is it possible to be so cute?- deftly jumped to snag it, exposing her razor-sharp fangs, as Grey Wind just waited, graceful, for his piece to fall.

_He misses Robb,_ and it's blatant, not that Lyarra doesn't miss her brother too.

With all her heart.

And two days -Two days!- came and went since her visit to the crypts, and still no news came from the South. It is understandable, time is needed for messengers to ride such great distances, nevertheless, it certainly does not make the wait any less frustrating.

"What do you think, Ghost?" Lyarra distractedly wondered, twirling a lock of raven-black hair, bare feet dangling from the side of the bed, "I keep dreaming, but I never remember, and all the restless night gifts me are headaches and questions."

The snowy beast just stopped chewing. And then, faster than a diving falcon, threw herself paws first over her poor squeaking mistress, starting to coat in smelly spittle the young girl's giggling face. 

Not very Ladylike, one must admit. _Why, thank you, Ghost._

Lady Lake chose that exact moment to make her presence known, familiar steps echoing judgemental out on the stairs.

_Oh, good, let her enter while I am all covered in direwolf drool, with a sword sitting on the desk, what a very bright idea._ That elicited another joyful burst of chuckles that reminded Lyarra of a caught-hands-in-the-marmalade-jar Robb. As the noblewoman knocked, a 'one moment' slipped past the girl's lips, and she luckily managed to rinse her raveny hair before too much time to be considered ill-mannered passed.

And as Lady Lake pompously waltzed in the room, only a tidy grin graced the young Stark Lady's face.

A quick visit to her water basin preceded ushering Lyarra in the adjacent and dimly-lit dressing room, helping her in a suffocating bodice and in her most beautiful gown, an intricately woven black and grey piece embroidered with running direwolves and crescent moons -honouring both her father and her uncle Benjen- to then fit her tiny feet with gracious Weirwood slippers, of colour red and white. Her hair was carefully brushed by her ivory comb, thus braided in a familiar and traditional dual bun, all in preparation for this day.

A very meaningful day.

"You're effortless, my dear," the woman finally said, clasping the last brooch just under the young Lady's collarbone, "elegant, a jewel."

And so this jumpy remainder of a forenoon passed as every other would, a pretty illusion of normalcy, at least until a long line of carriages was spotted in the distance, a slow procession, escorted by green tritons on white backgrounds. Indeed, Lord Manderly had finally come. The richest of the Stark's vassals, the most faithful, many whisper, chased out from the Reach for treason and welcomed North by the King of Winter, now a thousand years ago.

Dodging the press of servants, guards and attendants, she lightly jogged to her rightful place, right in the centre of the courtyard.

It is farcical how much time passed since then, and unimaginable to think that it was one of Lyarra's own ancestors, a Stark, that had welcomed the Lord Warren Manderly to the same cold and stony halls, under the same cloudy sky. Were the watchtowers the same? With the same subtle slits? Was the Reachman welcomed by the same two sitting statues of Direwolves now greeting his descendant?

_Now it's not the time for history, though, right, Lya?_

And as the first massive chariot entered the double gates, a chariot that would indeed not have disfigured at Highgarden's sheds so attentively decorated it was, she stood, dutiful, ready to greet the White Harbour family. Behind her, the entire household, and arriving on her right, Rickard Karstark himself. The Karhold Lord arrived the prior evening, and while his attitude could seem a little excessive, with constant sneers and subtle insults, the white-haired old warrior appeared actually quite capable. For what Lyarra could understand, she is still young, after all.

_It would be nice for him to stop calling me Lady Greysnow, at least._

And apparently, this fine day, the only thing the man would defer to her would be a brief, polite nod. _Fine, then._

A white, luxurious and polished handle slowly pivoted, the equally luxurious door above the wide silver wheels lastly opening. She had heard voices, passing and trivial whispers -at least not much importance she gave them at first- about the supposed girth of Lord Manderly, yet to see it with her own two eyes left her a little stunned. Because _it was true_. Helped by two servants, the Triton Lord got out the wooden monstrosity, immediately approaching and bowing to the Lady of the Castle, as tradition requires. He is called Lord of White Harbor, Warden of the White Knife, Shield of the Faith, Defender of the Dispossessed, Lord Marshal of the Mander, and Knight of the Order of the Green Hand, but also Lord Lamprey, Lord Too-Fat-to-Sit-a-Horse, Lord Pig and Lord Lard, and the young Lady Stark does honestly not know what to think.

Vayon Poole's words of him were as cryptic as they were useless.

"My Lady Lyarra," the man's voice was slick but courteous, inscrutable, his many chins wobbling, "may I say, rarely have I seen a fairer girl."

"Lord Wyman," she answered, tilting her head, "we welcome you at Winterfell, grateful for your presence in these trying times."

Then she offered bread and salt, because nothing is more important than a guest.

At once, the rest of the family lined up to greet her, of them Ser Wylis and Ser Wendel, valiant knights, and Wynafred and Wylla, bright-eyed and sweet girls. They bowed to the blank-faced Lord Karstark with an elegance Lyarra could certainly envy, to then come and kiss her on the cheeks, a greeting far warmer than mere words. And with the rest of the formalities out the way, the dusk-toned Lady turned around, guiding the-newly arrived guests through the mud and fallen leaves of the courtyard, to then hastily gesture for some guards to show them to the New Keep's best quarters. 

As in the centre of the courtyard, a wooden wagon is relieved of a lead coffin, but she does her utmost best to make her granite-coloured eyes avoid it.

_Not now._

And as the sandglass flows, the day going on, it is all eloquence and word games, and they're... pretty exciting, actually.

For this would be her first actual sip of adult nobility, the first place where her words would have real and actual importance. To be seen no more as the legitimised bastard daughter -even if that's all she ever wanted to be- she has to show her claws, because the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives, and she would do anything to protect her family. Politics, etiquette, Lyarra had studied it all. Even before she could ride, even before Robb could start fooling around with wooden swords, she remembers Lord Eddard bringing both of them to Luwin to listen to the written works of the Grand-Maesters. Oh, it was boring. Boring and useless, she thought at the time, she was going to marry some second son, so why bother? She hadn't cared, and neither did her brother, playing in the cloudy moss and hot springs of the Godswood was the only thing that mattered, until it didn't, and Robb learned to love little wooden figures and Lyarra dusty tomes about the ancient families. 

_Casterly in the Halls of Casterly Rock_

_Durrandon at Storm's End, the sun rarely know_

_Blackwood and Mudd the Trident would share_

_of the Stark the oldest castle Westeros has_

_Royce the Vale's peaks from high they will rule_

_of Dayne the stars, and the sun, and the sands_

_and to Gardener first all the fruits for his hands_

Oh, she still recalls that old lullaby.

And it's incredible that even with two Lords of such calibre visiting, Winterfell is still a very needy mistress. And mayhaps it is better for the conversations to begin at luncheon.

Yet, at first, it is only pleasant small-talk they're engaging in sat at the long High Table, as they taste seasoned quail with maple sap and cabbage on steel-rimmed platters. It is not the tastiest banquet, but it is the way of the North. The green-haired Wylla, Lyarra found herself glad, sat at her right, spinning tales of the Wolf's den and of dark-haired to pale to blue-dyed people from all manner of realms throughout Essos and afar.

And so, from the latest fashion of the capitol to the pleasant idea of impaling all the disloyal Ryswells in front of the Southern Gates as soon as Lord Robb returns, courtesy of the very spirited mind of one Lord Rickard, sand kept flowing in the hourglass. Lord Wyman actually proposed to bake them into pies, and the frightening thing is that the sun-kissed girl can't understand if the man is serious or not. So Lyarra laughs, compliments lady Wynafred for her choice of clothing and even tries a little bit of wine.

It's too bitter.

"And here I thought Myrish lace to still be favoured by the queen, how silly of me."

Up and down, like falling and getting back up, and then falling again. The real dancing would only begin after, though, in the solar -ever the solar- under the watchful eye of Ice. Many matters of great, paramount importance, and it should have been Robb here, Robb ready to address these subjects that she only has a fretful inkling of, but he is not, he is bravely fighting, sword in hand.

_Not literally, I hope, he cannot be that much of an idiot._

The thought made her downright smile, fondly, as the purple piper sang for the Hall's entertainment.

Because it is not her who's supposed to govern the North, all she ever desired was a caring family and a warm hearth, all she ever deserved, but that's not an option, not anymore.

Not since father left these lands, not since an old letter was discovered by bright, innocent sea-blue eyes.

And so another day dragged on, another sleepless night, still missing on news, as Lyarra finds herself balancing far too many scrolls in her skinny arms, quickly rehearsing in her overloaded mind what she would have to speak of to the two Lords. 

She curled a lock of raven-black hair in her fingers, an emotionless mask on her face, not unlike a second skin, aware of how much the two men in front of her will try and contend every single one of her points. 

"Shall we begin?"

And first is, of course, the harvest. Because Northern soil is frigid, Northern seeds hard to take root, and Northern mouths hard to feed. As it always was and always will be. There is a reason, after all, of why the elders decide to leave the safety of the hearth to hunt through the indomitable winds of winter. Yet, with a hopefully long spring to precede a hopefully long summer, and with the Throne's financial support - thanks to the Master of Coin- the situation does not seem hopeless.

And then are the greenhouses.

Then the Night's Watch.

"Hence," the sun-kissed Lady spoke, "Measter Luwin went over the previous arrangements, those previously redacted by my father's and Lord Commander Mormont's hands. These," she pointed to the unfurled scroll, "we deem the necessary changes, starting from the Lords of the New Gift."

Hours and hours of talks, of disputes, and in the end, not much was agreed upon. The spring fair had not been a very lively topic, the very unwelcome presence of the Stone Plague's menace saw to that. And yet, it was only the second day. Until, as the sun was starting to set, the entire daylight spent alongside the two Lords and a water chalice, the one topic Lyarra was not at all ready to even touch appeared, and Gods, it would be hard to find something more embarrassing.

Marriages.

Because both of the Stark's scions hands are very desirable. Robb... well, he is a Lord Paramount now, Warden of the North, and of one of the noblest and most ancient families. Moreover, his grandfather by mother sits in the Small Council of a King that considers the crimson-haired Lordling akin to a nephew. While Lyarra is his only heir. 

And of all the Stark's vassals, Manderly and Karstark are the most powerful, the most faithful, bound by gratitude and convenience, by family.

And so Lyarra despaired, hoping then more than ever to be with the orphans covered in fluttering summer-snows, eating sugar-dusted cakes.

"What I'm saying," the Karhold's Lord stern voice proclaimed once again, as if she didn't hear him the first hundred times, "is that my Alys offers everything a Lady Paramount should aspire to be, beautiful, kind with her family while strict among the servants, wide and strong hips quite capable of bearing lots of strong Northern children, taught only by the best," the man glacial gaze fixed on the young wavy-haired girl, "and as we already are family, a new union would only benefit us both."

_Prideful asshole._

"I understand, Lord Rickard," aloud she twisted her lips, fingers tapping on the desk, "but my brother word will be the final one."

He slammed a gloved fist on the table, violently, all the inkpots precariously wobbling. Honestly, this was getting ridiculous, forget intimidation -even if in the beginning she had been, just a bit- the only thing this old idiot was now accomplishing in her regards was a further headache.

"Why won't you understand, you stubborn girl?"

_How mature._

"It is not a matter of understanding," she answered, "not I, nor Vayon Poole, nor Maester Luwin have the authority of arranging such a thing, much less our Uncle Benjen."

As if saying it now would end unlike the previous efforts. Still, a girl can dream.

Evening sunbeams started sneaking through the motionless tents, painting the solar red.

And it was odd, because Lord Manderly still had not spoken a single valuable word on this, not when the old Karstark tried to hoard both her's and Robb's hand, not now for this completely untoward display. Just short-clipped answers, polite and superfluous addictions. And it worried her, he seemed... almost complacent, watching and covertly giggling at the Karhold Lord's expense, as if his pale blue eyes hid secret the two others were not conscious of.

So Lyarra readily addressed the grey-haired man, and maybe that would cut off Lord Rickard's pointless demeanours.

"What about Lady Wylla, my Lord? Is she enjoying Winterfell's halls?"

"Oh, quite well," was the nonchalant reply, "but how could she scorn such lovely hospitality? A pity Lord Robb cannot be here, they'd get along wonderfully, and undoubtedly," a lazy, inscrutable smile settled on his face, a hand raising to prevent the Karhold Lord's scoffing, "and she would be a perfect wife for young Lord Robb, do not misunderstand me, their personalities seem made for one another, and I would seal a contract, if you'd offer me one, right now." 

"But..." he kept talking, as an odd silence befell the solar.

And it felt like the ancient tapestries were watching, heeding, woolly mouths whispering.

Oh, nothing good would ever come after a similar 'but'.

"I heard something," the Lord finally murmured, slyly, as if he was some sort of inn's scoundrel, telling questionable stories in front of a steaming plate of supper, fingers as big as sausages resting on his chair's large armrests. 

"You know how harbours are, and White Harbor is no exception, sailors from all over the world come and then set sail, daily, and rumours, well... it is known, they travel far."

Grey Wind grazed her leg from under the desk.

"And a captain from the Stormlands, the Father bless his soul, a wonderful lad, told me how he recently stopped by in King's Landing, just before all this unholy mess started."

The young Lady couldn't detach her gaze from Lord Wyman.

"He told me," the Warden of the White Knife stopped, intrigue dancing in his old voice, "he told me that he caught a voice, that a Gold Cloak with rare shifts in the Red Keep heard something from one Lady Stokeworth. And I wouldn't tell my Lady this, right now, if I wasn't sure enough, if after that one time I didn't hear it a second, then a third and then once more. And they all spun the same tale, that Lord Eddard and Lord Hoster were planning a betrothal, a betrothal for Lord Robb, indeed, and that only His Majesty the King's blessing lacked for it to become official."

She managed to cover her astonishment, just her eyes unnoticeably widening, but it was a close thing. 

"And seeing that the King decided not to appoint a regent, here, in our beautiful land, to go against his counsel would not be... wise, especially if the girl herself is from such a prominent family of the Reach."

But as soon as the man stopped, cutting words left Lyarra's mouth.

"Who?" The Lady demanded, not dissimilar to every other Stark that sat on this chair before her, her voice honed to perfection, her posture regal, flickering candle flames bathing her lineaments in dancing shadows.

"Who would you have become my goodsister?"

Silence.

As icy fingers trying to grasp at fast-beating hearts.

"Lady Talla Tarly was the name they gave me," Lord Wyman finally replied, reaching once again for his wine.

And, oh, how it absolutely, beautifully and seamlessly made sense. Lyarra can see it, nearly in front of her, the King, sitting in his high chair, the Hand at his right, old and wise as in her father stories, and then Lord Eddard himself, exchanging quiet words with Lord Hoster. A table to decide the fate of kingdoms. And how would they go about securing _seven_ of them in one fell swoop? Marriage alliances, of course. Like moving pieces on a Chivasse board. And the next moves are so _painfully_ obvious that she doesn't know how they did not cross her mind far, _far_ sooner than now, now that Lord Manderly told her of one key piece. A realm scourged by plague and financial unrest, nobles and smallfolk alike dying while the court squanders gold in wine and boar and tourneys, a realm that lost faith in its sovereign, needs to be sewn back together through means of young noblemen and noblewomen. A realm that may not wish for a usurper. And the Targaryens are without a doubt the most delicate threat.

Rhaenys -her sister- is obviously set to marry Prince Joffrey, this to legitimize the Baratheon's claim to the throne, and yet the half-dornish princess is the most volatile piece on the board. The Dragon indeed. A double-edged sword. Because what would happen if someway, somehow, Rhaenys slipped through the suffocating claws of the Red Keep? 

A new queen.

And who if not the Tyrells would gift her a husband and a promise of swords? Lord Willas, or maybe even Lord Garlan, a regent king for a House of stewards. And with Dorne quickly following behind, the two factions of the Rebellion would form once again, yet without Aerys' madness to tip loyalties of uncertain Houses. The Reach army alone - a hundred thousand men- is strong enough to place a big enough menace of the new Baratheon dynasty, those prideful and strong knights of the land that never wilts. And with the entire south revolting, no more supplies coming to that giant monster that is King's Landing and an army of unbeatable proportions at the gates, she can't imagine an easy way for the Throne to triumph.

A war not simple to win, and death always follows war.

How to prevent it, then? 

By whittling away Tyrell's support, naturally. And who better to steal than Randyll Tarly? One of the best commanders in Westeros, the only one that managed to defeat Robert Baratheon on the field, indeed the Lord of Horn's Hill commands respect and fear, as well as a sizeable army. Many say that with him at the head of the Reach forces in the Rebellion, Aerys would still reign undisputed. A man already married to Melessa Florent, and everyone knows that no family bears more hatred and envy for the roses than the foxes themselves, for old feuds are hard to die. The Florent would undoubtedly be first to rise against their lieges, unquestionably siding with the stags, as Selyse, Melessa's cousin, is married to Stannis Baratheon. And with Talla Tarly wedded to Robb under the Gods, what would prevent Lord Randyll to turn his sword to Tyrell's throats?

_Absolutely nothing._

And to a man that values power and standing as much as Lord Randyll, nothing would be better than promising his firstborn daughter to the heir of a Warden. 

But it wouldn't end there, because Jon Arryn is old, and to renew an alliance with the Vale, Princess Myrcella would be promised to little Robin Arryn. Lyarra hands slightly moved in the air, imagining a map. Marrying Lady Shireen to Edmure Tully would gain the Riverland's fealty for another generation. Moreover, with the North secure by means of friendship and honour, the Westerlands and the Stormlands by way of blood, the same alliance that managed to overthrow the dragons, a dynasty ruling for three-hundred-years, would be restored.

Lady Aldora, Robb's de facto aunt, would be maybe pledged to the Heir of Casterly Rock, a strong bond to link even further Westeros' central reigns. Or to the Rykker heir, for the Crownlands' fealty, or possibly still to Theon Greyjoy, now a hostage in the capital, to try and control the unruly Iron Islands.

And yet...

Yet it would be all in vain, for there is a lonely piece, a lonely, lost girl, whose existence alone can unbalance every carefully devised scheme, every single intrigue of the Game of Thrones. 

Princess Alysanne Targaryen.

_Lyarra Stark._

For deep in the Dornish mountains, Lord Eddard Stark took a sun-kissed babe from his sister's dying hands, swearing on the Gods to hide and protect that little girl from the entire world, and it would be that action to shape Westeros' future.

...

_Gods, godsgodsgods._

_No one can know,_ Lyarra's mind strayed, hysterically, _how could I be so blind? So selfish?_

_Shit._

_It is not a matter of family and blood, it's politics, it's war, it's something that could make the entire Seven Kingdoms tremble. And not merely that, how will Northern Lords react knowing I'm of the same blood of the man who dishonourably burned their Lord Paramount, of the man they marched to war against?_

How would the two men now in front of her react?

_Gods._

Her breath quickens, fast. She feels suffocated, just for a moment, a single, horrible moment, her bodice crushing her lungs.

_No, calm down, you've been taught better than this._

_Breathe._

"Lady Lyarra?" Lord Manderly distinctly worried voice inquired, contrasting his curious pale-blue eyes. 

_Breathe._

"I'm sure Lady Talla would not be found lacking," she finally answered, voice flat, false and nervous smile straining flushed cheeks, as if she wasn't having a fright mere seconds earlier. 

"MY LADY," from behind the door a shout came.

A guard, Marlon, if she is not mistaken, barged in the room, breathless, as three pair of eyes immediately trained on him. 

"Lord Robb was victorious," and it came a wheeze, but she heard it altogether. 

_Oh._

Relief flooded her veins, as Lord Karstrak boldly laughed.


	12. Teach me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks to everyone who subscribed, left kudos, commented or bookmarked, you really made my day! And this will be the last chapter before a time skip, so in the next ones, the real deal is going to start! Thanks to everyone who followed this story until now, I am so grateful! And if you want to see something in the story, or something doesn't sit right with you, please tell me, I love constructive criticism!

_ Robb kept his promise. _

As Grey Wind silently nuzzled her leg, Lyarra let her head lean into the back of the chair, and finally,  _ finally,  _ her breaths came a bit easier. Lord Karstark was shouting something to Lord Manderly -she inwardly bemoaned, is the man ever capable of talking at a reasonable volume?- but, well... it's not important now.

_ Robb won. _

"My lady..." yet the guard kept talking, and it's never this simple, isn't it? "Ser Jory also assures that Lord Robb is perfectly fine, but was lightly injured at the end of the battle, a healer was already capably tending to him, though."

And thus preoccupation immediately came back haunting her thoughts.

_ Gods, as soon as he comes back I'm going to kill him. _

* * *

On the very same hilltop he fell from his horse, Robb sat on a little wooden stool, head up and hands clasped on his lap, as regal a pose he could currently endure, while some red and blue garbed knights of his great-uncle's household were dragging a dishevelled and yet still proud-looking Barbrey Dustin up to the small wooden platform right in front of him. Squirming, her ash-blond hair dirty, there was still fight in her vivid grey eyes, that was obvious, even after she ungraciously fell on her knees next to her father, Lord Rodrik, and a bruised Ser Beren Dustin. And those eyes, oh, they kept staring at Robb with so much  _ hate.  _

Guilty of rebellion, all of them. Not that there was much doubt how all of this was going to end.

And yet, the young Stark Lord was barely managing to stay upright. As he woke up, hardly a day prior, it was Lord Brynden at his side -at least it seemed that way, given the familiar shade of the man's hair- a strained wobbly smile on his old wrinkled face and unmistakable worry in his sky-blue eyes, and even if they never met before, not since Robb could remember, at least, the old warrior's first words were: ' _ I'm sorry. _ '

_ Sorry? For what? _

For Eddard Stark's death, maybe? Was he going to hear other useless words of comforts? That was the first thing that had come to Robb's foggy mind.

Gods, his head was hurting.

But it was only after a water chalice was handed to him, after he hastily drank and the world shifted back to normalcy from that blurred mess, that he finally understood, because where his left foot should've been, now was only a bandaged stump. So Robb's breath had faltered, just for a second, his mind going back to that wayward arrow in those last seconds of battle. He won, right? But yes, he would not be here otherwise, lying on a pretty comfortable hay bed and with his great-uncle at his side. And more, he won a nearly flawless victory. But at that moment his great-uncle Brynden was looking so much lost at his side, a hand nervously travelling salt-and-pepper hair while the other was nearly crushing Robb's smallest one, a small obsidian ring depicting a jumping fish shaking in the candles' light.

_ Shit. Fuck. _

And then, realization hit, sudden, because if that arrow didn't kill him, well, Lya was unquestionably going to as soon as he'd brazenly enter Winterfell gates without a foot.

_ "Are you alright? Robb?" _

Tully blue eyes met Tully blue eyes, and the only thing the young boy could do was hugging the man and begin to uncomfortably cry. He couldn't help it. Even if it showed weakness, even if he can't,  _ can't  _ show cracks appear in his armour, it's just too much, and the tears don't stop flowing.

Lord Brynden is his family, at least.

And so now he is here, bags under his young blue eyes, and ready to carry out the fate of the rebels before him. Fortunately, the same field-healer that had to cut his foot managed to fashion a small wooden prosthetic, it would not yet be able to be walked on -the wound was still far too raw- but at least could give the red-haired boy a small semblance of dignity while he sentenced his enemies. And even if the healer gave him some herbs' concoction -very disgusting, by the way- everything was still hurting like a bitch.

_ Gods, I can't even stand. _

The ever-joking Alyn had to carry him here from the tent, like a bride in his arms! Alyn! As if he was again a five namedays old boy caught red-handed sneaking in the kitchens.  That had made him laugh a little bit, truly.

"If only your grandfather had not been such a greedy cunt, boy, mine and Brandon's son would sit on the throne of Winter, not some whelp of a Riverland's..."

A spear's shaft suddenly and violently hit Lady Barbrey's stomach, making the noblewoman abruptly bend over in a high-pitched lament of pain. 

"Silence, bitch."

Shouts of indignation instantly rose from all over the circle of knights and Lords, yet young Lyle Snow, bastard of castle Cerwyn, still had something to say, with a morosely pained look in his eyes.

"Hundreds of sons of the North died, just because you couldn't live with the fact that Lord Brandon couldn't marry you? That Lord Willam died for his Lord? You disgust me."

Ser Helmann laughed, uncaring, but Robb couldn't deny most of the Valemen seemed at least a bit scandalised.

"S-ser," some white-bearded man clad in violet-glazed armour scoffed, "it is most untoward to hit a Lady!"

"Then try and stop me, you fuck," the bandaged and half-crying man remarked, still cutting an impressive and intimidating figure, even with a broken arm dangling from his neck in a filthy piece of cloth, "my father died, the Lord Cerwyn, for this bitch wanted to right a nonexistent wrong of more than ten years ago."

"Lord Medger died a noble death on the battlefield! It is no reason for hitting a woman!"

"SILENCE," a shout brusquely interrupted the dispute, courtesy of Jory Cassell.

_ Heheheh, my saviour. _

Robb sent a look of thanks to his guard, as the noise slowly started to quiet down. Only then the young Lord Stark started to talk. It had been a predictable decision, sure, helped and advised both by his great-uncle and the Northern Lords, but still, he has the final word, he has to swing the sword, make the final decision, and it's... overwhelming, exciting, interesting? Lady Barbrey, Lord Ryswell, even Ser Beren -he is not of the main-line, but the Dustin are still an ancient and most noble family- whichever their fate, it will be an example of Robb's resolve, an introduction to Robb's rule, an action that will reverberate for years to come. Because even decades later, the fate of Reynes and Tarbecks still stretches together with Tywin Lannister's shadow.

And oh, how much Lord Eddard despised the Old Lion.  How could he not? How could the most honourable man in Westeros not loathe someone who slaughtered so indiscriminately, someone who ordered an infant and a little girl murdered?

_ I'm not like that. _

Decisions, decisions that will pave the road in front of him.

Yet, what punishment can be deemed fair to such treason? For the so blatantly betrayal of a liege Lord in such difficult times, with a plague at the gates and Lord Eddard's corpse still not cold in the grave. Strenght has to be answered with strength. And... well, Robb wants them to die, to pay, even if there was another way, the red-haired boy doesn't think he would take it, there's this hole in his chest that keeps  _ itching,  _ asking, demanding blood.  Ryswells and Dustins, they gambled, wanting more power, just... wanting  _ more _ , they must've known the consequences of failure would be disastrous.

"Lady Dustin, nèe Barbrey Ryswell" at last Robb said, looking the hateful woman in the eyes, a small smile slipping on his lips, "for planning treason against your liege lord, you are sentenced to death." 

Sombre silence enveloped the clearing. 

"Barrowton and the Barrowlands, lands of your late husband, will hereby pass to Lord Ronnel Stout, a true and loyal northerner, and to his sons after him, long may he rule."

Stout immediately moved in front of him and kneeled, accepting his new duty, as the old traditions most-oft require. There would obviously be another ceremony in the near future, but for now, this was enough.

"Lord Ryswell," Robb continued, "for guiding the rebel army against your liege lord, you are sentenced to death."

The man just lowered his head, inscrutable, a severe contrast to the paleness that had captured his daughter's face.

"Your sons and grandsons will have the honour of joining the night's watch, as castle Ryswell and the Rills will pass to your grand-daughter, the Lady Elaine, for her to be a ward of Winterfell until her marriage to a suitable Lord," Robb quickly sentenced.

"Ser Beren Dustin," the injured black-haired knight kept staring at the ground, unmoving, "the brothers in black always need valiant swords, you will join the Night's Watch."

Yet, apparently, the former Lady of Barrowtown now could not hold her tongue any longer.

"You... you..." she angrily muttered, only for Lord Brynden to immediately order some guards to silence her and promptly take all of them back to their wooden cells, as Lady Barbrey trashed and shouted once again, throwing him a last odious look. There would be other Minor Lords and landed knights to sentence, other issues to address, still, the most pressing matters were now taken care of.  _ Good, good, they deserved it.  _

...

His fingers took a strand of his fire-red hair, twirling it. Fire-red, the same colour as his mother's, that's what everyone ever told him, and oh, how he loved it! Waking up in the morning and put it in a small ponytail, alone in front of the mirror, brushing it with his small ivory comb. A small smile graced the pale boy's lips.

_ I am a Stark, but I am also a Tully, and I will rule the North from my throne of blackstone, it is my birthright, my duty. _

An eerie wind fell from the sky, and Robb could feel every eye on him, waiting, assessing. Then, ever slowly, all around him, the hilltop started to empty, everyone returning to their duties all around the camp, preparing for the upcoming march back home, and only the red-headed Knight of the Gate stayed behind.

"Teach me."

Brynden Tully's face betrayed surprise, but only for a fleeting moment.

"What?" The old knight asked then, "What do you want me to teach you, Robb?"

"You are undoubtedly one of the greatest warriors of our time," the young Stark Lord's hand tightened over his sword's pommel, his  _ ceremonial  _ sword -his worthless sword- "you crushed the Butcher in the Ninepenny war, and father always said that without you the Rebellion would've probably failed," Gods, why is he so nervous asking something of his great-uncle? "And there is not a King that didn't ask you to serve them in White, Maester Luwin told me that, you're so incredibly strong, and I need to be stronger, so teach me, please, teach me how to be invincible."

Well, he is a mess, isn't he? 

But Lord Brynden just watched him, a look on his face that nearly seemed... intrigued? 

And so the man spoke: "looks like I'll be staying in the North for a while, then, your grandmother will certainly be pleased."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please consider leaving a comment, I always love reading them and I answer every one! Thank you again for reading!


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